


Downtime

by sailcloth



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-08-17 14:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 38,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16518314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailcloth/pseuds/sailcloth
Summary: A collection of stories about what the Interesting Times NPCs do in their spare time.





	1. the work they did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the Session I meeting, from Helena's perspective.

Between the increased need for security on the holiday and his actual duties, Heinrich had spent nearly eighteen hours of every day in the Tower Wall, the imperious fortress of black stone that overlooked the Anoran Capital. 

For the most part, Helena had been with him, trying to coordinate the mass landing of ships, their unloading, and then attempting to clear the docks. The stack of petitions for entry to the main Anoran port was as half-again high as her forearm, and Heinrich’s two lieutenants, Tiberius Shaw and Novus Claro, had sailed down the coast to Takeri to take ships in there and try to relieve the burden on the main harbour. They had taken the _Iron-Herald_ and the _Relentless_ with them, leaving Heinrich’s flagship, the _Valiant_ , in the Capital. 

Although the Queen and the Princess were more circumspect, half of the Anoran elders were unable to see beyond the money the celebrants were bringing to the island, and almost daily, one of them was in her brother’s office, feuding with him over his unwillingness to lift the restrictions on entry to the port. 

“Mark my words, one of them is going to let slavers dock in their village,” Heinrich said, taking the cup of tea Helena set down on his desk. He took a sip as though he had something against it, then frowned. “That’s going to be my fault too. Why are you bringing me this?” He eyed her. “Where’s my secretary?”

“I sent her home,” said Helena. “Six hours ago, because it’s three in the morning.”

Heinrich sat heavily in the chair behind his desk and rubbed face with one hand. “When is the Magistrate getting here?”

“Today, brother.” Helena smiled at him, vaguely, though she was hardly less exhausted. “Four hours from now. You need to go home and clean yourself up, maybe sleep for an hour.”

“That bad?”

“You look terrible,” Helena said, candidly. It was the truth. 

*** *** ***

They went back to her brother’s estate, walking along the sea wall, and Heinrich managed to at least bathe and shave before falling asleep on the couch in his room. Helena resolved to stay awake to meet Savitus and his entourage, but the last thing she recalled before being woken by one of her maids was sitting down on her own bed. 

“Please distract him,” she told the girl as she rose. “Serve the Magistrate and his assistants tea until I make myself presentable.”

By the time she had bathed herself and changed, her brother was already downstairs, speaking with Savitus and his assistants. He must have called his friend Torsby over as well, and Helena joined them, taking her brother’s arm as she came up the group.

Her first impression of the Lord Magistrate was that he was friendly, approachable even, and he took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks when they were introduced. Savitus’ demeanor was patriarchal, but in a good way. He brought to mind a doting grandfather or a parent to whom you could confess anything, and he had a way of centering the conversation on others, instead of himself.

The Magistrate’s assistant, Cooper, seemed to fall somewhere between bodyguard, interrogator, and associate, and Helena thought he might be a former intelligence officer. However, it was difficult to read him, and like her brother, Cooper seemed to believe that open-carrying his pistols was appropriate in every social situation. 

Sayah was an Alchemical girl who served as Savitus’ personal archivist. She looked superficially Valdinoran, which Helena and Heinrich both were, though there was something identifiably foreign about her. It was a common look that they cultivated in the _crèches_ in the Highlands, since it was considered desirable in personal servants. Helena tried her best to become friends with the girl, but Sayah would inevitably turn any thread of conversation back to Savitus and Cooper, how important they were, and the immense value of the work they did. In her own way, she was just as talented at steering conversations as the Magistrate himself, and despite her best efforts, Helena lost interest in her quickly.

Later, they were joined by King Haolani’s representatives, and his son, Prince Aohako. 

Taku Iti was something of a odd case in Imperial relations, though Helena had read all about it some years ago, when she had traveled to Anora from the Highlands.

Offended by what they saw as the encroachment of Imperial culture, the people of Taku Iti had ‘seceded’ from the West Wind Archipelago about seventy years prior, forming their own government and declaring one of the warriors the new king. Since Taku Iti lacked Anora’s naturally deep harbors and immediately useful resources, Ranath, the First Imperial Prince, had simply let them go. There was nothing on Taku Iti worth going to war over, and the relationship between the wayward island and Anora had been strained and terse, but basically peaceful.

It meant Aohako was a prince in name only, but Helena still greeted him politely. 

He was accompanied by a small group of bodyguards, and Helena had heard that King Halolani had remained behind with the rest of his soldiers to personally assist his citizens and help with the necessary evacuations. Regardless of what she thought of the political situation on Taku Iti, her personal regard for the man was quite high. 

With the Prince’s entourage were a pair of Southern God-Blooded, both Terrestrials. One of them was an artifact-hunter of some order, and he towered over her, at her full height she hardly reached to the center of his chest. The other was a woman, a Druid from the Unbroken Circle, and she spoke with Sativus about the artifact they had discovered at some length. 

The last member of the Prince’s entourage was a sailor that Aohako had met in town, and the man looked _profoundly_ uncomfortable to be in the company he in. 

Helena wasn’t surprised. 

Her brother may have barely spared the man a second glance, but she knew exactly who he was.


	2. risk everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the day after the PCs left for Taku Iti.
> 
> Most of the military officers who are trained at the Black Stair end up in the Death Cult of the Stag, and Heinrich is no different.

Helena seized the hanging curtains in her brother’s room and threw them wide. 

Sunlight shot into the room like a flare going off, and Heinrich — and the two women who were in bed with him — screamed in protest. 

Her brother sat up, shielding his eyes and glowering at her, while the two women looked at first confused, and then concerned and frightened. One was native Anoran, Helena could tell from her dark skin and glossy, ink-black hair, the other had the look of a visiting Imperial, though she had dark hair as well. She was Bellish, from the Central Provinces, or that would have been Helena’s best guess. She doubted her brother knew anything about them either. 

“Out,” said Helena, sternly. She wasn’t surprised that they looked worried. They probably thought she was the Commodore’s wife. 

The two women fled, snatching up their clothes and shoes and making themselves scarce. Neither of them dared to make eye contact with either her or her brother.

“Did you have to do that?” Heinrich asked, as soon as the bedroom door slammed shut. He rubbed his temple with one hand. There were two empty wine bottles on the stand next to her brother’s bed, and another empty bottle of harder liquor on one of the tables, along with most of a set of shot glasses. The rest were probably on the floor, but Helena couldn’t see them from where she was standing. “It’s too early for the sun to be up.”

“It’s ten in the morning, Heinrich.” Helena crossed her arms. “What are you doing?”

“Celebrating a thousand years of civilization,” he returned, smirking. “ _Ave Imperator_. Was that a trick question?”

“You’re horrendous,” she said.

“For some specific reason?” he asked, sitting up and resting his arms across his knees. “My drinking habits? My lack of respect for women?”

“Were you smoking in the house?” she asked, glancing around.

“It’s _my_ house, Helena.”

Her brother was good-looking, and there was no shortage of women who had told Helena as much. His blonde hair was coarse, almost brown, and his eyes were the same shade of gold as hers — though his blood was far to impure to be their father’s heir. His skin was pale, and his dark tattoos stood out boldly against it, the most prominent one was of the Stag, on his back, and the outline of antlers wrapped around his upper arms. He had a _killer's mark_ , which they had started on the inside of his left wrist when he was at the Black Stair, and he was running out of space for it. 

Their father, Alamech, had not claimed her brother when he'd been born. Their family name was merely an affectation for Heinrich, used with permission, in the hopes that the Senate might allow Admiral Arka to have his only male child invested and declared legal. It was never going to happen. The other High Houses tasted blood in the water.

“How could you send poor Torsby off to a monster infested island, all by himself!?” Helena pulled the curtains the rest of the way open and secured them, to her brother’s groaning protests. 

“He’s fine!” Heinrich said, gesturing vaguely, out over the ocean, in the rough direction of Taku Iti. “He’s not even by himself! The Magistrate’s guard is with him, and those two Terrestrials. Emperor’s _balls_ —”

“You _know_ I hate it when you say th—“

“Emperor’s _eyes_ , Helena, he’s not helpless.” Heinrich moved to get out of bed. 

“Wait,” said Helena, holding up one hand, “are you naked?”

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Of course not. I always have sex fully clothed.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Helena said. She glanced around. “Where are your pants?”

“Will you be _more_ or _less_ furious with me if I tell you that I’m not entirely sure?” Heinrich leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Did you decide to ruin my morning just over Torsby, or was there something else?”

“There’s something else,” said Helena. “I just thought I’d make poor, dear Torsby’s case while I was up here, ruining your morning.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“I’ve just come back from a party where I was with Lenna Rosemoon,” Helena said. “I’m running away to join her performing troupe. I’m going to play the violin for the Khans in Sudar. I’m just here to pick up my things.”

“So I should tell our father that you’re not coming home,” Heinrich said, flippantly, “whether he finalizes your marriage contract or not?”

“It’s _his_ marriage contract,” said Helena, crisply. “I'm nothing more than a prop, used to circumvent another's bad blood.”

Heinrich leaned back against the pillows, folding his hands together and pointing at her with his index fingers. “What I’m getting from this is that you want to ruin my military career, along with my morning.”

“I would rather die than marry Aneji Ramas,” Helena said. “So yes, you’ve got it right.”

“Alright then,” he said, and he turned on his side, pulling the blankets back around him. He covered his face with them, to block the sun. 

Helena raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“You’re both under arrest,” he said, his voice muffled by the blankets. 

“I’m leaving,” said Helena. 

“Be sure to be back in time for your shift,” said Heinrich as she went out.

*** *** ***

In regards to their personal appearance, there was a certain desirable look that Imperial God-Blooded were expected to cultivate. In the same way that Savitus’ Alchemical assistant looked like she was from one of the Central Provinces with only a light trace of exotic blood, God-Blooded such as Helena were expected to carry their divinity in a way that made them appear as human as possible. 

The White and Black Registries, the twin societies that governed Imperial magic, made truly atrocious amounts of money doing what they called _alterations_ — often on children. For the right payments in gold (or political favors), they could brew potions that would return a God-Blooded’s skin to the ‘proper’ color or consistency, or compose scrolls that would draw fire or water out of a child’s hair. _For their own safety_ , the Registrars would say. It was always the explanation. 

When Helena had seen Lenna Rosemoon performing at the Coral Hall nine weeks prior, she had been shocked. The singer was so different from anyone else she had ever seen that it was impossible not to stare. Lenna’s skin was green all over, from the top of her forehead to the tips of her toes, and she was barefoot as she strode across the stage. More spectacularly, she had a pair of fluted wooden horns that arched back from her head, pierced in places with dangling chains and silver charms. 

It seemed impossible that she hadn’t dyed her skin or filed down her horns and had them capped with iron, and Helena stared at her, in awe. 

“I absolutely must go and meet her in person,” Helena said, touching her brother’s wrist.

Heinrich, who was deep in conversation with Tiberius and some of his other officers, had gestured vaguely and nodded, Helena doubted he had given it a second thought. 

Lenna proved to be a delight, and Helena adored her, though she was forced to admit she was starved for female companionship. They often went to holiday parties on nights that Helena wasn’t working or tried up in other business at the port. Up close, Lenna smelled faintly of pine needles and she had white spots on her skin, on her shoulders and back, like a spring deer. She traveled outside the Empire, composed her own music, and she cared very little what anyone thought of her — Helena was desperately jealous. It seemed like a glamorous, exciting life.

It was to Lenna that she went when she need privacy to carry out the work she needed done, and the signer listened sympathetically as Helena told the story.

“This man,” said Lenna, “Constantine you say his name is, he’s a runaway slave?”

Helena nodded from where she sat on the couch in Lenna’s hotel room. “I’m certain my uncle would have called him something else, but yes. It’s him, I saw him fight once, when I was much younger, so I doubt he would have recognized me. He— ”

Lenna came over and sat next to her, taking her hands, her expression encouraging. 

“I saw him,” said Helena, “and I felt… so ashamed of myself, I suppose. I realized there were people willing to risk everything for their freedom and I’ve done nothing these last few months but mope in my brother’s house.”

“Heinrich…” Lenna paused, “...didn’t see him at all? You said Constantine was there, at the meeting with Magistrate.”

“No.” Helena shook her head. “He didn’t, I already felt him out earlier this morning and he’s completely forgotten him. To be honest, I don’t think he even knows the names of the Southern God-Blooded. I doubt he paid much attention to anyone but Torsby and Cooper.”

“Then,” said Lenna, “I suppose I can help you make some arrangements.”


	3. if she had wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three days after the fight at the Convergence.

“You’re certain it’s Torsby?” Savitus asked, from the bottom of the stairwell. 

“Tiberius said it was a blonde Imperial, and that he was injured.” Heinrich took the steps two at a time, the heels of his boots striking blue fire from the black stone of the fortress stairs. “If he was recovered from Taku Iti, who else could it be?”

Savitus sighed, falling into step next to him as they crossed the courtyard, heading towards the the harbour. The Magistrate wasn’t young, but in Heinrich’s opinion, he carried himself well. Savitus looked classically Kajari, with olive skin and dark brown hair that was greying at the temples. He must have been working on something when Heinrich had called him, because Savitus wore his uniform, the red sash of his office pinned across his chest. 

“It’s possible,” Savitus admitted, “that if your friend was too injured to travel, Cooper had him sent back and continued on alone.”

“He’s like that?” Heinrich asked. 

“He is,” said Savitus, plainly. 

“I can respect that,” said Heinrich, “even if my sister’s going to murder me if something’s happened to Torsby.”

They had come to the sea wall, and Heinrich descended the stone ramps to the docks, walking alongside the Magistrate at a brisk pace. “They’re close?” Savitus asked, once they had reached the bottom level. 

“Just friends,” said Heinrich. 

In the harbour, the Valiant was moving towards them, guided towards the docks by some unseen hand, even though her sails were furled. She was a beautiful ship, a partial rebuild from a recovered artifact vessel, and Heinrich loved her dearly. There were other relic ships in the fleet, more powerful and faster ones, but the Valiant was _his_. 

Savitus followed his line of sight. “It’s a fine ship,” he said.

“If she had wings,” said Heinrich, fondly, “she could fly.”

While they waited for the Valiant to dock and the harbor to clear. Savitus took out a cigarette and put it between his lips, then lit it with a match which he shook out and tossed into the ocean. Heinrich took that as permission and did the same. 

“Who’s piloting it?” Savitus asked. 

“Helena.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

The Magistrate looked impressed. “Is she any good on the open water?” he asked. 

“She’s the best in the world, but she can’t go out on the open water.” Heinrich took a long drag from the cigarette, savoring the crisp burn of it. “Her fiancée doesn’t approve.”

“Well, I approve,” said Savitus, “and fortunately for you both, my approval carries more weight. Have your officers tell her to take us as close as we’re allowed to Taku Iti.” There was a pause. “Who’s her fiancée?”

Heinrich glanced at him. “Aneji Ramas.”

The effect on Savitus’ demeanor was immediate, his whole face darkened, and his mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. He tossed down his cigarette and crushed it against the stone with the heel of his boot, as though he had something against it. 

“Commodore, between us—” he began.

“I’m your servant, Lord Magistrate.”

“—the man is a _worm_.”

“He’s the worm they’re going to name High Speaker,” Heinrich pointed out, “but you should take this up with my sister. She likes him even less than you do.”

“Hardly possible,” said Savitus. 

“Between us, Lord Magistrate—”

“I join the Emperor to his people, Commodore.”

Heinrich considered. “—is it because he wants to reform the Senate and the Magisterium?”

“No,” said Savitus, and he seemed to calm somewhat, his expression reserved, instead of angry. “No, that’s not it. I believe in reform myself, I think most people do.”

“I admit I’m surprised to hear that,” Heinrich said. 

“It’s a different world than the one our Empire was founded in,” Savitus said, candidly. “I’d find it difficult to argue that our government should continue in its current form, especially without the Emperor. We’ve invested absolute power in... in a non-entity, Heinrich. The last time he was in public was over three centuries ago, and his last direct edict was a hundred and ninety seven years ago.”

“—but Aneji?”

“The man doesn’t want reform,” said Savitus, his voice was calm, but Heinrich sensed the conviction and quiet anger behind it. “He wants the Seat of the High Speaker, and for the Magisterium to be his personal army.”

The Valiant had come up the dock, and the crew were securing it with ropes, extending the docking ramps for Heinrich and Savitus, who boarded quickly. 

“We’ll talk later,” said Heinrich, before he went to see the crew. “I think there’s more to be said.”


	4. total faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambiguous timing. After Cooper and Savitus left the Capital, but before the beginning of Act 2.

The painting was called ‘The Procession’, and when it was unveiled at the National Gallery, the Magisterium had had the man who painted it, Liam Myr, shot. The painting itself had been confiscated and as far as anyone knew, burned, but around two centuries ago, the Emperor had had it removed from the Imperial vaults and ordered it put on display. 

Standing with her hands folded behind her back, Sijit Stormhand gazed up at it. 

It depicted the sun rising behind the Imperial Palace, and the high crown of the Northern Valdinoran mountains. From each direction, and on every thoroughfare that led to the Palace, from far and wide were Gith — every Gith who had lived in the Highlands, in fact. The Magisterium and their agents were leading them into the Palace, and as everyone knew, none of them had ever come out. 

Sitting on the palace steps, smoking a cigarette, was Conductor Black, his face was (of course) obscured by a piece of statuary, and his arm rested over the base, as though he were a casual observer.

“Do you think the Emperor ate them?” asked Aneji Ramas, as he sat down on the bench behind her. She felt his eyes on her. “It’s what my father used to tell me.”

“Yes,” said Sijit, without looking back.

He laughed. “I didn’t think you would believe that old story—“

“You would be surprised by a great deal by what I believe, Senator.” Sijit turned to regard him. 

Aneji was tall, even a for a man, and his legs stretched out, away from the observation bench he was sitting on. Standing, he would have been almost a foot taller than she was. His hair was brown-black, and his eyes were the same color. He was only half Valdinoran, Bellish on his mother’s side. It was a fact that had no doubt defined the entire course of his life, and yet, in light of all that she had recently learned, it was completely meaningless.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, “General Stormhand, are we... going to speak here, on the gallery floor?”

Sijit nodded. “I like the atmosphere.”

“Very well,” he said, but he looked nervous, and he glanced up at the painting, then back to her. “Alamech is having the final arrangements made. It’ll be finished by the end of the month. The end of the holiday, at worst.”

“... and what about his son?” Sijit asked. 

“Heinrich Arka is a half-breed dog.” Aneji snorted. “Barely human, we don’t even know who his mother is. He can’t inherit, and the Senate is never going to have him invested, his father has too many enemies.”

“This would look better if things weren’t so…” Sijit considered. “...forced, Senator.”

“It’s not being forced,” said Aneji. “Alamech and I are good friends, but he’s not young, it’s only natural that he wants his House and his daughter taken care of.”

“Heinrich has an army,” said Sijit. “His men are loyal.”

“There’s no harm in that,” said Aneji, confident. “I admire loyalty. After the Lord High Admiral’s sudden, but not entirely unexpected passing, and the tragic, brutal murder of my new wife, they can be loyal to _me_ — as I assume leadership of our nation with a burdened, heavy heart.”

“Tragic?” asked Sijit.

“Well—” Aneji shrugged. “For her, I would imagine.” 

“I don’t want any loose ends,” Sijit said, she kept her expression severe.

“If I make a bid for the Speaker’s Seat, it would inconvenient if the Emperor were to reappear and strip the Senate of its powers,” Aneji pointed out. 

“The Emperor is not going to reappear, Senator.” Her words had a finality to them that could have only come from absolute certainty. 

“Then there won’t be any loose ends, General Stormhand.” Aneji leaned forward, on the bench. Sitting, he had to look up at her. “... but there was something else I wanted to ask you.”

Sijit regarded him, but said nothing. 

“These allies of yours—” Aneji began.

“What of them?”

“Can I meet them?” he asked. “What are they like? What should I expect?”

“My allies are…” Sijit considered. “...reclusive, Aneji. They won’t show themselves until the Hour is upon us, but trust in them, and you will be rewarded. We’ll have an Empire that will endure forever, I promise you that.”

“So then—”

“There is one more thing we need from you,” Sijit said, “but there’s no time to discuss it here. There are others I have to meet with.”

“Then when _can_ we discuss it, General?”

“I’m afraid,” said Sijit, “that I will have to leave you to discover it on your own, but you’re a smart man, Senator Ramas, I have total faith in you.”

...and with that, she went out, leaving him alone with the painting.


	5. an empress, perhaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambiguous timeline. Takes place after _total faith_.

In the outer halls of the Imperial Palace, Sijit passed below the honour banners of the great Paladin Orders. 

At the forefront were the Nightbreakers, under the command of their renowned Hero-Captain, Sayn Karal. Their emblem was the Stag’s skull, and behind it, two inverted torches, burning blue. It was a touch grisly, but they were Kajari, and the ancestor cults were strong there. 

Beyond that, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of others. Leon Daymiar and his swordsmen, with their gold-and-scarlet fighting fish. Arete Kito and her silver lions were stationed across from Liam Copernicus and his gold ones. Olympe Claudio’s banner bore the image of the _Psila Vouno_ , the highest mountain on Asharin, and Erembour Zehir’s was a black dragon — though if any dragons had survived past the Age of Ruin, they had been even more reclusive than the Gods. Bastion Theros, ever the utilitarian, seemed to need reminding that a banner was supposed to be decorative, and his was nothing more than a single gold bar across the black field of his shield.

Sijit loathed them all, and she decided that the first order of business, after she killed these men, would be to burn their banners in a great pyre. 

It would be a shame, to lose such warriors, and she thought of what they might have accomplished together, but she knew that they would never turn. They lacked the will for what needed to be done.

Near the grand doors that led to the courtyard, Sayn and Leon waited for her and she approached them. 

Sayn was taller and broader than his companion, his skin was darkly olive and his ink-black hair had been cut down, close to his skull. In appearance he was almost stereotypically Kajari, although his eyes were very blue. Leon was Valdinoran, and he was lean and angular, with pale skin and white-blonde hair. Most Valdinoran men cut their hair short, but Leon’s fell past his shoulders, and he kept it secured behind his head with a black tie. He was handsome, many women thought so, and no shortage of men either — if rumor was to be believed. 

None of it mattered, though Sijit eyed Leon’s armor as she came to a stop near him. It had been forged during the Age of Wonders, and it made him impervious to most harm. Beyond that, it was exquisite, colored in rich purples, fine golds, and the cool reds of a setting sun. Engravings on the chestplate and gauntlets had been painstakingly filled in with enamel, the runes telling a story that no one left alive could read. It was a treasure that should have belonged to a king, not a servant. 

...or an Empress, perhaps. 

“High General,” said Sayn, nodding to her, respectful.

“Captain Daymiar,” she said. “Chapter Master Karal, thank you both for coming.”

“I admit we’re confused,” said Sayn. “We were told by the Magisterium that we were needed in the Capital as an honour guard for the Emperor, but now you’re telling us we’re being sent away?”

“This Bellish insurgency—” Sijit began.

“We know all about the Bellish Liberation Front,” said Leon. “We’ve dealt with them before. It’s only that...”

“It’s only that we find it near-impossible to believe they’d target holiday celebrants,” Sayn said, picking up where his companion had left off. “Traditionally they’ve limited their attacks to Imperial agents and the Magisterium.”

“Or to the military,” Leon added, pointedly.

“What you choose to believe or not to believe is not in debate here, Heralds.” Sijit looked between them. “This has already been decided, the Senate wants these Bellish rebels crushed before they can cause any more damage. You are to take certain elements of the Imperial Army with you, to assist.”

“The Senate?” asked Sayn, “They’re seldom that agreeable, or did you mean Ramas and his followers?”

“The Deliberative House agrees with Senator Ramas on this issue,” Sijit said, bluntly. “They speak in one voice.”

The two men glanced at each other, then back to her.

“Let me be frank, General Stormhand.” Sayn frowned, unimpressed. “No man from the Paladin Orders is going to be the speartip of your invasion and occupation of Northern Belar.”

“Aneji Ramas is not the High Speaker yet,” said Leon, crossing his arms over his chest, “and we wouldn’t follow these orders _even if he was_.”

“We’re the defenders of humanity,” said Sayn, “not your personal champions.”

“...and yet you’re willing to allow the Liberation Front to attack Bellish citizens.” Sijit’s tone was severe, bordering on dangerous. “On this sacred holiday, no less.”

“We’ll go to Belar and look into this personally,” said Sayn, “but keep the Imperial Army out of it. The situation there is fraught as it is, imagine their reaction if they see Valdinoran regiments marching across the border.”

“I—” Sijit pressed her lips together, her mouth a thin, disapproving line. “I don’t approve of this course of action, I want my protests noted officially, Chapter Master.”

Sayn raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are you protesting, General Stormhand?”

“Without the Imperial Army there to support you, should anything happen, you’ll be completely exposed.”

“A risk we’re willing to take,” Sayn said.

“A fraught peace is better than no peace at all,” Leon added.

“I don’t like it,” Sijit said.

“You don’t _have_ to like it.” Sayn turned to go, Leon following. “We’ll send word from Belar.”

Sijit watched them until they were out of sight. _It's done_ , she thought.

 _Good_ , came the answer.


	6. know for certain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place five years before the beginning of Session I, in the Valdinoran Capital.
> 
> An _amercer_ is a Black Registry wizard who serves as an advisor and support staff for a high-ranking military officer. Having one is quite rare and prestigious, and Heinrich absolutely does not deserve one.

“Have you ever been to Saun?” Nathaniel asked, over dinner. 

Helena looked up at him. Her lover was older than she was, not so much that their relationship was impossibly scandalous, but he was thirty-four to her twenty-two. Fully, he was Nathaniel Adrien Claret, a Colonel in the Imperial Army. 

Nathaniel was Othean, from the Fifth Imperial State. Othea had come last into the alliance of Highland nations, and it was far larger then Valdinor when counted in terms of territory. However, Valdinor was more developed and cosmopolitan, and it had nearly three times Othea’s population.

“It’s close to the border,” he said, helpfully. “With Berosau.”

“I’ve never been,” Helena said. “Is it nice?”

“I like to think so,” he said. “My family owns some land there, though there’s nothing much on it. Not yet.”

A little over a year ago, Helena’s friend Charlotte had introduced them at party, and although they had hit it off, Helena had spent the next few months avoiding him, under the impression that he was looking for a mistress. Nathaniel, meanwhile, had spent those months trying to figure out why she refused see him privately, until he had at last convinced Charlotte to set them up again. 

“Do you want to go there?” she asked. “How long is the train ride?”

“About four hours into Saun,” said Nathaniel, “and then the drive into the country is another two hours.” 

“It wouldn’t be much of a day trip if there’s nothing out there,” said Helena smiling, “but if you need to go out there and inspect your family’s holdings, I can make time for it. It might even be enjoyable, if we're together.”

“I meant it more in the sense that my family would give it to me.” Nathaniel looked at her, meaningfully. “If I were married.”

Helena, who had been about to take a bite of her food, stopped dead. She set her fork and knife down. “Nathaniel—”

“Hear me out—”

“You’re supposed to be asking my father,” Helena said. “Not me.”

“I don’t want to marry your father.”

“The thing about that is,” said Helena, “that my father would never agree to it.”

“Because I’m not Valdinoran?”

Helena sighed. “That’s the whole of it, yes.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Nathaniel said. “Admiral Alamech wants Ramas to be the leader of the Empire and he’s not Valdinoran either.”

Furtively, Helena glanced around the restaurant, but no one had taken notice of them over the clink of glasses and the dull hush of private conversation. “Don’t,” she said, quietly. “It infuriates him, someone will hear you.”

“The truth infuriates him?” Nathaniel asked, and she heard the hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Alamech thinks we should all bend knee to a man who can’t admit he has a Bellish mother?”

“Nathaniel, _please_.”

“Fine,” he said, and reaching out, he took her hand. “Fine, I’ll leave off.” 

Officers in the Imperial Army were, by and large, exceptional men (or women, assuming their family was willing to tolerate that particular scandal). Only the highest echelons of the High Command were shielded from combat, otherwise it was all but required for an officer — even Generals, on occasion — to take the field alongside their men, especially if they wanted to make something of themselves. Nathaniel was no different. His hands were calloused and hard, and one of his forearms was scarred by the distinctive blue-black rake of spellfire wounds. 

He was classically Othean, with pale skin, brown hair, and wide, broad shoulders. Handsome enough that Helena sometimes found her gaze straying to the lines of his jaw or the curve of his lips in idle moments. 

“—but not about the proposal,” he said.

“You’re _incorrigible_.” Helena flushed. She pressed her free hand to her face. 

“Helena,” said Nathaniel, “you really must tell me yes or no.”

“What if I say no?” she asked.

“Then I suppose I have to acknowledge that I’ve misread why we’ve been seeing so much of each other over this past year, to say nothing of all the letters.” He put his other hand over hers and smiled. 

“Do you have a ring?”

“Honestly, no.” He searched her expression, hope clashing with worry on his face, and Helena felt her heart swell. “Helena, it’s two months salary, and I wasn’t sure how you’d react—”

“I hope you have it saved up,” Helena said, sternly, “because I’m saying yes.”

Nathaniel’s whole face lit up, and he knitted their fingers together, squeezing with both hands. “We should—” he glanced around the crowded restaurant, then rose, guiding her up with him. “We should leave.”

“Leave?” Helena blinked, but allowed herself to be led, keeping her fingers tight with his. “Now? In the middle of dinner?”

“For somewhere more romantic,” Nathaniel said.

“Like your apartment,” Helena suggested, boldly.

“I was going to say the Lunar Arch.” Nathaniel released her hand and paid the bill with a trio of stamped and inked paper notes from his wallet. “... and we can go to my apartment afterwards.”

*** *** ***

In the kitchen of the apartment that she shared with Charlotte, Helena listened to her brother making tea. He was good at it, but then again, he was good at most things, it was expected from officers.

She sat at the table, hands folded in her lap, her fingers covered by black lace gloves that went up past her elbows. Heinrich had taken her coat and hung it up for her when they’d arrived, but Helena couldn’t bring herself to take her shoes or gloves off. She stared straight downwards, at the wood grain of the table.

“His parents didn’t know who I was,” she said, after a moment.

Behind her, she heard Heinrich stop moving things around. The silence stretched out for what seemed to be an hour, but in reality it must have only been a handful of seconds. He came out, his footfalls echoing in the small space, stopping behind her chair. He put his hands on her shoulders, and Helena reached for one of them, though she didn’t look at him.

“He didn’t have time to tell them,” Heinrich said, simply. He rested the back of his free hand against her cheek, and his skin was warm. “Or he wanted to do it in person.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Helena, you _know_ what an awful, uncharitable bastard I am, and if I had thought for a second that Nathaniel didn’t love you, you would have heard all about it.”

Helena pulled her hands free from his and wrapped them around herself, clutching at her arms, weeping bitterly. Heinrich left her to it, and went back into the kitchen. In time, it passed, though the grief remained, yawning and black. After a moment, he came back with the tea, setting one of the cups down in front of her. Helena couldn’t even imagine drinking it, though she couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten. A few days ago, perhaps.

Her brother came around and sat opposite her, in Charlotte’s chair. He was wearing his uniform, and a long coat over that, a black armband sewn around the upper left sleeve. 

“Helena, I’m never—” he began, and then stopped. “I’m never going to love another woman. You know that, don’t you?”

Helena paused in the motion of wiping her eyes and stared at him. Words failed her. “That’s hardly appropriate,” she spat out, after a second. 

“I know,” said Heinrich, “but I wanted to tell you, since the rest of this is going to get very bad, I think.” 

“The rest of _what_?” she asked. Fear gnawed at her. 

He took a sip of his own tea, and set the cup back down. “Our father talked to General Laurent,” he said. “As of this morning, you’re no longer his _amercer_ , you’re mine.”

“ _What!?_ You— you’re not even _staying_ in Valdinor—!”

“I know,” Heinrich said. “You’re coming with me, to Anora.”

“Why?!” Helena struck the table with one palm, fury waxing up to eclipse grief. “Because it’s halfway across the world and he doesn’t want me socializing with Othean men?”

“He... used almost those exact words.” Heinrich sighed. “There’s more. Aneji doesn’t want you piloting anymore. It looks bad, for his fiancée to hold a higher military rank than he does.”

“What does that make you?” Helena stared at him, in disbelief. “My keeper? My jailer?”

“Both of those things, I suppose.”

“I hate you!” Instantly, she regretted the outburst. Heinrich was her best friend, perhaps her only friend after what had happened. “I—”

“Not as much as you’re going to.” Heinrich reached inside his coat and took something out, setting it on the table. It was a small flask, and the liquid inside was swirling and black. There was some kind of grit in it, collected at the bottom. It looked poisonous, though she knew it wasn’t. At least, not in the traditional way. 

“Gods.” Helena looked away. “Did our father put you up to that too?”

“No,” Heinrich said. 

“So you’ve been through this song and dance with a woman before?”

“Also no.”

“Maiden extract is illegal.”

“Not if you have the right friends and two months salary that you never want to see again.”

“Put it away, Heinrich.” Helena pushed it back towards him, but she didn’t look at his face. “I don’t even know for certain.”

“You’re _going_ to know for certain,” he said, “once you drink it.”

“No.”

“Forgive me for being born male,” Heinrich snapped, “but isn’t it going to be _immensely_ difficult to pretend to be a virgin on your wedding night if you’re breastfeeding?”

“You’re repulsive,” Helena said. “I won’t drink it.”

“Our father will kill it anyways, and then he’ll kill you,” Heinrich said. “Aneji might want you now, but he’d settle for one of our other sisters if it spared him from a scandal like this.”

“This conversation is over, Heinrich.” Helena turned to glare at him. Heinrich was watching her, and it looked like he was thinking about something. “What are you—”

“I suppose it is.” Heinrich took the flask, pulled the stopper free and drank it. 

Too late, Helena realized what he was going to do, and she tried to rise from her chair, to get away. Heinrich, for his part, didn’t bother coming around. He gripped the edge of the little table in one hand and threw the whole thing to one side. The teapot and cups shattered with a magnificent crash, liquid, tea leaves, and porcelain exploding across the floor. 

“Don’t—!” 

It was the only word she got out. Heinrich grabbed her by the arms and wielded her to the closest wall, slamming her into it. She tried to keep her mouth closed, but the blow knocked the wind out of her, and she gasped desperately for air, her feet scraped against the floor, trying to keep her balance. 

With one hand, Heinrich caught her by the jaw, his grip so tight it was painful, and he held her against the wall. When he leaned in and pressed their mouths together, it wasn’t a kiss — it was too violent for that, but the extract spilled from his mouth into hers, and there was no choice but to swallow it as she struggled to breathe, the reaction involuntary. 

He dropped her and she fell, landing hard on her knees. 

“Everything they say about you is true,” Helena said, forcing the words out between breaths. Her head swam, and her limbs felt heavy. It had to be the assault, the extract didn’t work so quickly. “You aren’t human, Heinrich. You were born from monster blood.”

“Hate me if you want to.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then spat what was left in his mouth to one side. It hardly made a difference, the floor and the rugs were already ruined. 

“I do!” Helena tried to rise, but her head swam. She tried to collect herself. “I hate you! I hope it was worth it! I’m just going to vomit it up, and I doubt you have more money to spare.”

“You aren’t going to vomit it up,” he said, almost matter-of-fact.

Helena looked up at him. “What makes you think that?”

“Because it wasn’t maiden extract,” Heinrich said. He reached inside his coat and took out a tiny glass vial, holding it up between two fingers. The liquid inside was clear, and there was barely any in the tube. “This is. _That_ was a sleeping potion.”

“Bastard!” Helena got her feet under her and stood, only to fall immediately, darkness clawing its way up through her consciousness and closing over her. Her brother moved forward and caught her, and she remembered nothing else.


	7. keep our heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place twenty-four years before the beginning of Session I, in AR 975.

“Desecrated?” Savitus asked as he walked with Albrecht Paladine down the main halls of the Magisterium officers. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Trent Darios followed them, his pace quick. He was Savitus’ apprentice, only a few steps away from being a Magistrate himself. He was young, but talented, and Savitus was proud of him. “It’s where you’re losing us, I’m afraid.”

Albrecht moved to one side of the hallway and stopped, beckoning them over, out of the bustle of the army of cadre members and clerks who staffed the building. He was a tall man, taller than Savitus was, but Trent was closer to even with him. Albrecht was Valdinoran, and he might have been called handsome, but his face always seemed tight and angry, like a closed fist. 

“I mean they were _desecrated_ ,” he said, leaning close to Savitus. “The fucking Gith killed Veko Augustine and his apprentice, along with their military escort, and then mutilated their bodies. Animals."

Trent frowned, but said nothing. He looked to Savitus. 

“Albrecht.” Savitus put his hand on the other Magistrate’s chest. “I know that you and Magistrate Augustine were close, but—”

“His brain was gone, Augustus.” Albrecht lowered his voice, glancing at the passing staff, but no one bothered them. “They didn’t even find all of Elias. His head was missing. He was nineteen, for fuck’s sake.”

Savitus blinked, but remained composed, and he reminded himself that anger wouldn’t fix anything. “Who found them?” he asked, determined to right the course of his friend’s anger before it overturned them. 

“An army Captain,” said Albrecht. “With the 23rd. He went looking for them when they failed to report in.”

“...and he saw the Gith attack Magistrate Augustine and his entourage? With his own eyes?” Savitus gave Albrecht a stern look. “He said that to you specifically?”

Albrecht stepped back and motioned to Savitus to follow, and the Magistrate did. Together, they strode down the corridor and Albrecht went into the first empty office he found. Savitus wasn’t even sure whose it was. Trent followed them in, and the other Magistrate closed the door behind them. 

Albrecht turned. “What are you getting at, Augustus?”

“That persecuting the Gith is not going to help Veko and Elias,” Savitus said, and he went further into the room and leaned on the desk. The space was neat and orderly, with little in the way of personal effects in it. He wondered who is belonged to. “Right now, the best thing we can do for them is keep our heads. He was investigating that corrupt Governor, out in the Western Provinces, when he was killed?”

“Yes.” Albrecht sat in one of the chairs that sat opposite the desk, one hand on the arm and the other resting over his knee. “You don’t think it was them.”

“I don’t have enough information to think anything,” Savitus said, and he glanced over to where his apprentice was standing at attention near the bookshelves that paneled one wall. “Trent.”

“Honestly, Magistrates?” Trent looked between them. 

“I find honesty is usually for the best,” said Savitus, and Albrecht motioned for the younger man to continue. 

“I’ve never heard of Gith desecrating corpses,” Trent said. “They take caring for the dead very seriously, even their enemies, and they won’t eat meat unless the animal has been severed properly.”

“Severed?” Albrecht asked.

“It’s their version of a _passage rite_ ,” Trent explained. “To stop the dead from returning.”

“...but animals don't return from the dead, so that’s a complete waste of time.” Albrecht drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “How do you know so much about them?”

“I’m from Irwall,” said Trent. “Near the border of the Godscar, in Belar. The environment there doesn’t affect the Gith, so that’s where most of them who were able to leave Valdinor fled, after…”

There was no need to explain further, all three of them knew. 

“We need to interrogate this army Captain,” Savitus said. “...and Albrecht do you have the bodies? We shouldn’t trust an autopsy to anyone else.”

“They’re in the morgue,” Albrecht said. “Downstairs. Gods, what’s left of Elias’ doesn’t even look human.”

“What do you mean by that, Magistrate?” Trent asked. 

“He’s—” It wasn’t permitted to smoke inside the Magisterium offices, but Albrecht took a pack of cigarettes out and put one between his lips, lighting it with a tiny flame that he conjured over his fingers. Savitus let it go, if it was going to soothe his old friend’s nerves, all the better. “—all shriveled up, and his skin is discoloured, ruined. Purple-and-black.”

Trent considered, and he asked what Savitus was already thinking. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“It was wearing his clothes,” Albrecht said. 

“But without his head, that could be anythi—”

“Something is wrong,” Savitus said, cutting Trent off. “Something happened that we don’t understand, but we must find out what it was. Just we three, this shouldn’t leave this room.”

Albrecht nodded, and he looked like he was about to begin speaking, but there was a knock at the door. A second later, one of the Alchemical servants who were ubiquitous in the offices came in. 

“Magistrate Ravinica,” she said, looking around. “I’ve been looking for you. Forgive me for interrupting, but your wife is here.”

“Shit.” Savitus hissed the word out. “I forgot I was meeting her today.” He stopped leaning on the desk and straightened his shirt, then combed his hands through his hair. “Wait here, I’ll send her home and meet you two downstairs.”

“Augustus,” said Albrecht, and he rose from where he was sitting, he seemed calmer,as though he had been thinking things over. “No, of course not. Veko will still be in the morgue after lunch, and Trent can go and get started, otherwise what’s an assistant for?”

Savitus looked to Trent, who nodded obligingly. 

“If I find anything,” he said, “I’ll send a runner to get you.”

They left the little office, Trent heading in one direction with the Alchemical, Albrecht and Savitus in the other. Albrecht put out his cigarette with a word, and threw it in one of the bins they passed, half-finished. 

“Are you going to have him elevated?” Albrecht asked, when Trent was out of sight. 

“Probably before the end of the year,” Savitus said, thoughtfully. “His work has been exemplary.”

Albrecht nodded, and they continued down into the main hall. 

“I know you and Veko went to school together,” Savitus said, “and you were apprentices at the same time.”

“It’s awful business,” Albrecht said. 

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Savitus said. “I promise you that.”

“Is Matilda pregnant?” Albrecht asked, apropos of nothing. 

Savitus glanced at him, surprised. “That’s quite the change of subject.”

“But is she?”

“She won’t say one way or another, it’s too soon, I think, but she wants to move out of the city.” Savitus went down the wide stairs alongside Albrecht as they came to them, the main public receiving area was crowded with bodies as people came and went on business. “She claims the apartment is too small.”

“Ah,” said Albrecht, and he looked at Savitus, meaningfully.

“You’re Asharin’s greatest investigator, Albrecht,” said Savitus. “Truly.”

Across the floor, he spotted his wife, Matilda, carrying their daughter on her hip. She was Kajari, like he was, with long black hair that reached to her waist, though she wore it pinned up behind her head. She was speaking with one of the secretaries, but when she saw him, she raised her free hand and waved. He smiled and did the same, starting towards her.

At the bottom of the staircase, there was a Magisterium officer leaning on the railing, his back to them, smoking a cigarette. He wore his sash of office, but it was black instead of red.

“You can’t smoke in here,” Savitus said, as he passed the other man.

“I can do anything I like,” the man responded, though he didn’t turn. 

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t look at me, Savitus.” The man flicked ash from the cigarette onto the floor, still facing away. “Look at your wife. It’s going to be the last time.”

He felt the air flex and shudder. Beneath Savitus’ feet, the floor buckled, and the room erupted in a blue-black blast of spellfire, the ceiling — and all the floors above it — plunged down on them like a stone rain. The single greatest loss of Imperial lives during peacetime.

In the end, he survived because Albrecht saved them both from the worst of it with a spell, holding up part of the building until they were rescued, but in the aftermath, they both forgot all about Veko.


	8. born yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambiguous timeline. Takes place in the Capital, some time after/during Session III.

Mathias was making tea when he heard the knock at his door.

His apartments weren’t tidy, he rarely bothered cleaning it between his shifts at the hospital, and he glanced around at the clutter. In the end, it didn’t matter. Mathias was a private man, one with only a few acquaintances. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so it seemed a simple matter to get rid of whoever it was. Charity canvassers or a salesman, most likely.

As it turned out, Mathias was wrong, because it was neither of those things.

It was Aneji Ramas.

Senator Ramas had three guards with him, from the Imperial Army, though that didn’t surprise Mathias. He followed the news, and he knew that the Lord General Stormhand had fallen in the demagogue Senator some years ago — having met him during one of their many campaigns for reform. Officially, the military was backing Aneji’s bid to the Speaker’s Seat, but unofficially Mathias had heard that there was a great deal of unrest among the officers.

Mathias stared at him, trying to determine if it was the Senator himself or if this was some sort of prank. 

“I—”

“Doctor Barda.” Aneji smiled and leaned forward. “May we come in?”

It wasn’t a question, and Mathias stepped back from the door, his mouth hanging open. Aneji stepped inside and glanced around the modest apartment, his expression neutral, though Mathias could tell he wasn’t impressed, and inexplicably he felt guilty for not cleaning up. Not that there was any point in cleaning up.

“Yseul.” Aneji’s eyes fell to the tea preparations, which were scattered around the small kitchen. “Go and make tea while the doctor and I talk.” He turned to Mathias. “May I sit?”

“ _What_ —” Mathias blurted the word out. “What— Lunarus’ white tits, what are _you doing_ here? And it’s registry clerk Barda. I lost my license.”

Aneji sat down in Mathias’ chair, two of the guards stopping at the door — the only exit from the apartment — while the other one went into kitchen and resumed making tea. Mathias looked at them nervously, each of them was armed.

“Doctor, please.” Aneji gestured. “Sit down.”

“Registry clerk.”

“Mathias,” said Aneji. “Come now. I just want to talk.”

Slowly, Mathias walked to his couch and sat, looking across the room to Aneji, who smiled graciously. He clutched his hands in his lap.

“You’re a fleshsmith?” Aneji asked. 

“I’m a registry clerk.”

“But a fleshsmith is what you are,” Aneji said. “Even if they take away your licence, that can’t be changed. Am I right?”

“I don’t—”

“If you ask me, it’s a bit like censoring an artist, or clipping the wings of a bird.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Lord Director Paladine,” Mathias said, plainly. “I have nothing else to say to you, Senator. I don’t want to discuss my work, past or present.”

“What about a more general discussion of fleshcrafting?” Aneji asked. 

“Sijit Stormhand must have literally dozens of licensed fleshsmiths who could answer your questions,” Mathias said. 

“Mathias.” Aneji folded his hands together and leaned forward. “I’m not leaving.”

“What do you want?”

“Tell me how Alchemical soldiers are made,” Aneji said. “Let’s start there.”

Mathias sucked in a breath, weighing his options, but even if he wanted to run, there was nowhere to go. Besides that, it wasn’t as if Ramas was going to kill him, the stakes were far to high, and it would be idiotic to show up for an assassination personally— especially when one was angling to be the leader of the Empire. He looked up at the other man, who was waiting patiently, his fingers steepled together. 

“Primarily, an Alchemical is made of protoflesh.” Mathias’ palms were sweaty and he wiped them on his pants. “Protoflesh is collected from the Godscars, and there are three main sites. In the ocean trench near Rael’s Island, on the border of the Glass Desert, and of course, the largest one, which is in Belar.”

“It’s why Valdinor annexed it,” Aneji said. “In the Last Great War.”

“I— yes.” Mathias went on, gaining confidence. “After it’s collected, protoflesh is alchemically processed and rendered down into a usable form, hence the name. In that state, it’s a bit like semi-liquid clay. It’s safe to handle too, unlike the exposed wounds in the Godscars.”

“I’m fascinated, doctor. What makes it…” Aneji gestured. “...alive?”

“Souls,” said Mathias. “A human soul that rejects the cycle of reincarnation remains trapped in this world. If it’s able to get back into its body, it becomes an undead creature, but it lingers an incorporeal state if it can’t or if its body is destroyed.”

Aneji’s guard came back out with the tea and set a cup down on the low table in front of the couch, but Mathias ignored it. He took the other one to Aneji, who held it on the wide arm of the chair, listening intently.

“Valdinor acquired most of its respositores of souls during the First Great War, in AR 126.” Mathias sighed. “As I’m sure you know, the Shunari and Eshayan civilizations were annihilated when they turned their armories of First Age weaponry loose on each other.”

Aneji nodded. “Valindor and Kajar were nearly wiped out by the undead hordes that came afterward. Their armies were outnumbered seventy-five to one. It led to the Second Unification.”

“The White Registry managed to collect the majority of Shunari and Eshayan souls, initially the hopes of purifying them, but they were at a loss for how to return them to the cycle,” Mathias said. “It lead to the first soul experiments on protoflesh, and since the demand for new soldiers was overwhelming, one thing led to another, and…”

“...and here we are, with an Empire that spans two-thirds of the planet.” Aneji smiled, showing teeth. “See, Mathias, that wasn’t so hard.”

“I suppose it wasn’t—”

“What if I wanted a dog?” Aneji asked, cutting him off. 

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me.” Aneji’s tone was friendly, conversational, but somehow Mathias sensed things were going off the rails. “What if I wanted an Alchemical dog? Could you make me one?”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?” Aneji raised an eyebrow. “Do dogs not have souls?”

“All animals have souls,” Mathias said, glancing around at the soldiers again, then back to Aneji. He reached for his teacup. “But they lack the higher intelligence and spiritual complexity of human souls. When animals die, their souls are immediately subsumed back into the cycle. They can’t naturally become undead.”

Aneji stroked his chin in thought. “What about a monster?”

Instantly, Mathias’ mouth and throat dried up. His hands hook so badly he couldn’t pick up the cup, and he drew them back into his lap. He looked up at Aneji, who was watching him, eagerly. He tried to say something, to protest, but no words came. 

“Is something wrong, Doctor?” Aneji asked. “Did you not hear me? What would happen if someone put a monster’s soul into an Alchemical body?”

“I would—”

“Yes?”

Mathias searched for his voice, and when he found it, it was hoarse and quiet. He was sweating. “I would have to report you to the Magisterium just for asking that, Senator.”

“How did you lose your medical licence, Mathias?”

“Embezzling state funds,” he answered, and thankfully, the long-practiced lie was automatic. 

“ _Come on_ ,” Aneji said. “Paladine isn’t having his agents flip your work office and apartment every two weeks because you forgot to declare some decades-old work expenses. He wasn’t born yesterday and _neither was I_.”

“It’s Lord Director Paladine.”

”I’ll let you in a little secret,” Aneji said, and he gripped the armrests and rose from the chair. “Albrecht Paladine is not going to be the head of the Magisterium for all that much longer.”

“Aneji,” said Mathias, and he wanted to draw back into the couch cushions. His apartment, with all its familiar clutter, suddenly felt claustrophobic. “It doesn’t work. Please believe me, it doesn’t work. I’m _begging you_ —”

“If it didn’t _work_ , they would have just shot you for tampering with the laws of nature.” He started towards the door. “The Magisterium wants this trump card up their collective sleeves, in case they ever need it, so they put you on ice, Doctor.” 

Mathias rose from where he was sitting, though his legs threatened to give out. “Senator, listen to me, you don’t _understand_ —”

Aneji gestured to the soldiers. “Bring him.”

The one who had brought the tea, Yseul, raised his hand, and his armor-backed fist crashed across Mathias’ face. After that, he recalled nothing.


	9. exitum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Session III, in the hidden Gith settlement on Anora.

From the way everyone was staring as he walked through the village, Haru knew that they knew what had happened. 

Khaza and Verus had not come out meet him, but the implication was clear enough, and he headed for the largest house, which rested at the apex of the Gith settlement. Their village was largest in the West Wind Archipelago, but the Gith lived wherever they could — on the edge of the wilds and tainted lands, or in the barren places that the humans didn't want.

Most of his people considered it a shameful state of affairs.

The planet belonged to the Gith, after all. 

Pushing aside the curtains, he stepped inside, to where Khaza and Verus were waiting. There was no point in delaying. 

Verus was the most senior of the Zerths, and though he was narrow and gaunt, he still managed to cut an imposing figure. His face was grim and world-weary, heavily scarred, and his mouth was set in a disapproving line. Haru didn’t necessarily consider that troubling, Verus always looked like that. 

Khaza was a Githyanki, born with red hair — a chance that was perhaps one out of one-hundred thousand. It was the mark of a warrior’s destiny, and she had been a warlord forty years ago, but now she was old, and for all her raging and warmaking, humans _still_ controlled the planet. She wore two Magisterial sashes, crossed over her chest in a crimson ‘x’, taken from men she had murdered. 

“We know,” she said as soon as Haru was inside. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Verus asked, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Nothing,” said Haru, looking between them. “A Zerth’s duty is help those in need, which is what I went to Taku Iti to do. I’m not sorry.”

“If the people in need are _our_ people,” Khaza said. 

“The undead don’t make that distinction,” Haru retorted. “Separation as a philosophy is flawed. I reject it. Wherever the humans are suffering, we are too.”

“You can’t possibly—” Khaza began, but Verus raised his hand.

“You summoned the Ruler Awaiting In Darkness,” the elder Zerth said, gravely. “The Promised Hour is so close, Haru. We can’t afford this brand of recklessness.”

“What was the alternative?” Haru demanded. “Waiting until the poison killed someone else? If whatever was destined to happen to him was bad enough, the humans might have retaliated against us.”

“The may well do that anyways,” Verus said. “Humans are unpredictable, they’re like animals. What about the child?”

Haru blinked. “She was a _child_ , Verus. Was I supposed to stand there and watch her seize to death?”

“Imperial children grow up to be Imperial soldiers,” Khaza said, dismissive. 

“If you hate Imperial soldiers so much,” said Haru, rolling his eyes, “there are plenty of islands that the Imperial Navy _isn’t_ guarding.”

“How dare—”

“Virtually every other island on Asharin, Khaza.” Haru met her gaze. “We could move the settlement.”

“If the situation were reversed,” she said, all but spitting the words out, “the humans wouldn’t have helped you.”

“Probably not,” he admitted, “but at least one of them will think twice about that now.”

Khaza bared her teeth, which were all pointed, arranged in her mouth in two rows, like a shark. “You sound just like your mother.”

“Good,” said Haru, without breaking eye contact. “At least someone here does.”

“Khaza,” said Verus. “Haru. Enough.” He took a deep breath and folded his hands together, making the sign of the Circle. “You know we can’t live in peace with the humans.” 

Haru sighed and made the sign in turn. “I don’t believe that. They would fight with us if we told them the truth.”

“Haru—”

“Maybe not all of them, but there are ones who would listen—”

“Haru!”

“If you would just—”

“Do _not_ speak over me,” Verus said, his tone hardening and his voice rising. “You are a student, Haru, and I am still your master, no matter how disobedient you are, and you will never be a Zerth with these doubts in your heart.”

“Master Verus,” said Haru, “there aren’t any doubts in my heart.”

Behind Verus, Khaza rubbed her face with both hands and turned away, making a noise that was a half-muffled scream of frustration. Verus stared at him, shocked at his boldness, and the older Zerth closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

“If you place such trust in humanity,” he said, “perhaps some time living _in exitum_ will be good for you. Then we wouldn't have to have these arguments, the humans will make my case for me.”

“If that’s your judgement,” Haru said, “I accept it.”

“Then go,” said Verus.

...and he did.


	10. greatly loved and greatly missed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Session IV.

Heinrich told Tiberius he would be back in an hour, and after he left, he went to his sister's room.

It was directly down the hall from his, though he had never been in it before, and he wasn't sure what he was expecting. It hadn't been tossed, and it looked like the maids had cleaned it before she had left with Lenna. It meant his sister's flight had been planned, and he found her _amercer_ uniform hung neatly in her closet, pressed and ready to wear.

She had left one of her spellbooks, and he flipped up the cover and leafed through it. All of the text was written in the secret language of magic, which he couldn't read, and there was nothing between the pages. In her dresser there were stacks of letters, and Heinrich was forced to admit that he hadn't even known she was writing so prolifically. Most of them were from Charlotte, his sister's friend in the White Registry, about the state of things in the Capital and the lives of their old school friends. Some of them were from Helena's other half-siblings, Charlotte's older twin brothers (Caius and Tarn Ashton, who were both Nightbreaker Paladins), and Willard Laurent (the General for whom she had worked as an _amercer_ before him) and Laurent's wife.

He threw the stack of letters on the bed and checked the other drawers.

Helena had an extensive wardrobe, large enough that Heinrich had no hope of keeping track of it all. For lack of space, she hadn't even brought it all to Anora, though he recognized some of it as gifts from her aunt, or from his father's other wives — Helena was the Heiress, after all, and they wanted to be taken care of after Alamech died. Although they had seldom met personally, Heinrich knew Aneji had sent some traditional gifts to his sister, but Helena had left all of them behind in the Valdinoran Capital.

Very little seemed to be missing, though Helena's boots and her heavy raincloak were gone.

At this point, it was more an intrusion than an investigation, and Heinrich sat down on the bed, rubbing his face with both hands.

 _You did this_ , he thought. _You probably killed Nathaniel, too_.

Near the foot of Helena's bed was a tiny shrine to Lunarus, from whom she was descended, and on it were three tiny kagu statues, in honor of the dead who were greatly loved and greatly missed. He had never seen them before, though Heinrich supposed that was no different than anything else in the room, and he rose from where he was sitting to take a closer look.

Each of the miniature statues was small enough to fit in his hand, though two of them were older and worn down and one was new. The first said ‘ _Nathaniel_ ’ on the bottom, in neat Valdinoran characters. The second had only a single character, ' _Lem_ '. It was the name informally given to all unborn children — wordplay on a greeting that meant, approximately, 'I want to know you better'.

He moved the first two to one side and touched the last one, which had been recenty made. The surface of the stone was cool, and when he tilted it up, the name on the bottom read: ‘ _Heinrich_ ‘.


	11. martyrs in that cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place approximately 16,000 years prior to the beginning of Session I, and the second part occurs during Session VI.

Xhast's estate was empty when Saaothii arrived, and her footsteps echoed in the halls.

He lived alone, on the outskirts of the Empire, she knew that. It was odd, for one of their kind, but Xhast was held in such high regard that he was 'eccentric', rather than 'crazy'. After all, he was the one who had solved the resource crisis, and on Ozora'inix - the planet-sized city and served as the seat of the Elder Council - the Empire was enjoying luxuries that would have been unheard of even a century before.

...and ‘alone’ was something a misnomer. He had slaves, of course, but they were all Gith and humans. He eschewed contact with his own race, even the drudges.

Or Xhast used to have slaves, Saaothii saw no one as she ascended the curling staircase that led to Xhast's offices, though she could sense the slow thrum of his mind, steady and dangerous, like the waves of the ocean at night. At the top of the stairs, she let herself into his office and crossed the cavernous room to his desk.

Even for an illithid, the Head of Imperial Resource Allocation cut an impressive figure. He was taller than Saaothii even when he was sitting, and standing, he was almost eight feet in height. His flesh was the dark, rich purple of the highest caste, the most visible example of how well he had performed in the brooding trials. Symmetrical, bioluminescent patterns stood out on both sets of his arms, and his shoulders were wider and broader than those of the drudges and middle-caste civil servants.

Saaothii was not as Xhast was, since she had been born in the _other way_. The creation of her kind was considered unseemly, but ultimately necessary, in the interest of preventing rebellion among the slave races. She was of the same lineage, but the psions on the Elder Council treated her with great disdain. Only Xhast saw the value in her work, and to Saaothii he was a true visionary. So it stung that had been the one sent to investigate him.

He was reading a book, but he looked up as she approached.

"Where are your servants?" Saaothii asked. "Are you living here alone?"

"I got rid of them," Xhast said, rising from where he was sitting and folding the cover of the book shut. "Only my personal assistant, Sayah, is still with me. I couldn’t manage without her."

"Got rid of them?" Saaothii blinked. "Are you getting new ones?"

"No," he said. "That's not going to be necessary."

"Xhast." Saaothii sighed. "I'm here because the Council has concerns about your... well being."

The tentacles around his beak-like mouth flexed and coiled in annoyance. "Do they now?"

"I was going to tell them they were worrying for nothing," she said, "but no one has seen you in months, your entire household staff is missing, and you're alone in your office, reading human books. Does their written language even make sense to you? It must be very different then _qualiit_."

"Sayah is teaching me."

“I see.” Saaothii crossed her arms, evaluating. “...and what is your human book about?”

“It’s an storybook,” Xhast said. “From her home planet.”

“Her home planet?”

“They call it Earth.”

Saaothii snorted in derision. “Humans are critically uncreative at times, aren’t they?”

“ _Ozora'inix_ means ‘High Capital’,” offered Xhast. “ _Izeru-Thraxii_ means ‘Other Land’.”

“I’m sorry, is this a debate?” Saaothii asked.

“Would you like it to be?” Xhast returned, answering her question with a question.

“Not really,” said Saaothii. “Does the human story have a happy ending?”

Xhast approached her. He was pureblooded, far taller than any human man was, and he leaned over her, uncomfortably close. “Am I being interrogated?”

Saaothii turned her chin up. “Would you like to be?”

“Is this about the report I sent to the Elder Council?”

“They think you’re deranged,” Saaothii said. “Avi’liir and Vokt want to have you psychically dissected.”

“I suppose it’s impossible to remain sane in times like these.” Xhast made a wet noise somewhere inside his body, annoyance, disgust. It was difficult to tell, and not for the first time, Saaothii wished she had been born in the proper way. “They would, wouldn’t they?”

“Xhast—”

“In the story,” he said, cutting her off, “Sayah’s people escaped cosmic annihilation by sailing to safety on a boat.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing out here?” Saaothii asked, incredulous. “Building a ship for your fucking maid?”

“No,” said Xhast. “No, of course not.”

“No?”

“The ship has been complete for some time.”

Saaothii gawked at him.

“The ship departed perhaps a decade ago, and it’s well on its way. Far beyond the range of a _nautilii’s_ best predicted jump.” Xhast folded both sets of his hands together. “What I’m doing is waiting.”

“For _what_?”

*** *** ***

Xhast cupped the woman’s cheek in one hand and turned her head from side to side, inspecting her, almost in awe.

She was in a trance that Xhast had induced, lost inside her own mind and unaware of the outside world. Standing thigh-deep in the murky pool, she swayed on her feet, as though threatening to tip over. The other woman, the helmsman, stood a few feet away, in similar condition, her dark raincoat swirling in the water.

“You said her name was Sayah?” Xhast asked, glancing back at Aten.

“Yes, but—” the human was saying something else, but Xhast ignored him. He had three of his soldiers with him, but the men were of no concern.

“Look at you,” he said, drinking in her hidden thoughts as though they were fine wine. Reaching out, he stroked Sayah’s face with one tentacle, coiling the three others around her bare throat. There was no reaction from the woman, but then again, she had no idea what was happening. “So preoccupied with the opinions of an unremarkable man. I—”

“—erase her memories?”

Reluctantly, Xhast loosened his grip on the woman, so he could turn to face Aten fully. Keeping his hand on Sayah’s arm, he raised himself up to his full height. “What,” he hissed, “are _you going on about?_ ”

“I said—” he began, but when Xhast turned to face him, Aten flinched backwards. “Can you erase Lady Arka’s memories of the raid?”

Xhast looked at the other woman. She had been wearing a magical disguise when she was captured, but after the fight in Anora and the march through the jungle, it had come apart. Even through the trance, she looked disheveled and exhausted. The helmsman’s white-blonde hair had come loose from its bindings and it fell nearly to her waist, grey with dirt and grit. Her clothing clung wetly to her body

“I can,” said Xhast, “but I can’t erase the memories of anything she saw while she was transformed. You weren’t supposed to go near the Imperial Quarter or the Tower Wall.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand that you were trying to rape one or both of these women,” Xhast said, “and that if those magistrates don’t kill you by inches, then Heinrich Arka will.”

“We didn’t know it was the Commodore's sister,” Aten protested.

“...and that means I should accept your actions without question?”

“Senator Ramas needs Helana to purify—”

“I'm aware that your intellect is woefully limited, but try to understand me,” said Xhast. “I don’t care _how_ the war starts, so long as it _does_. If you and this helmsman are to be the first martyrs in that cause, so be it.”

Aten narrowed his eyes. “General Stormhand told me you were our ally.”

“General Stormhand told me that _you_ were capable of obeying simple orders,” said Xhast, tightening his grip on Sayah’s arm, for he had no intention of letting her go, “so it seems she’s made liars of us both.”

He turned his back to Aten and his men, and behind him, Xhast sensed the act of betrayal, bold and red in their thoughts. He heard them reach for their weapons, and in turn, he reached for his...


	12. cannons facing outwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Session VI

When things were calmer, Helena found Heinrich out on the balcony that overlooked the street. He stood in the far corner, watching the people below.

"Even if only as a brother, how am I supposed to love you when you keep doing things like this?" she asked.

"Do you remember Väas Marda?" he asked, instead of answering.

"Yes," said Helena, recalling the young man. Heinrich's friend from another noble house. She had met him a handful of times, mostly on holidays, but nothing about him stood out as exceptional. "You went to military school with him. He died during the Lahore Fleet Incident."

"He didn't die during the Fleet Incident," Heinrich said. "I murdered him."

"Why?"

Heinrich turned. "You could at least have the decency to act surprised."

"More and more," said Helena, "I'm finding that nothing about you surprises me. Why did you murder him?"

"He was bitten by a nightgaunt," Heinrich said. "They were quiescent, buried in the sand, so we didn't see them at first, but I think the gunfire attracted their attention."

"There's an antidote."

"Not in Shunar," said Heinrich. "We were trying to take him to Lede, near the clear zones, but..."

"You didn't make it."

"No."

"I wouldn't call it murder," Helena said. "Military protocol on the subject is clear. Is that what you want from me? Absolution?"

"No," said Heinrich. "I think Väas was a Fallen, but he looked completely human. His mother must have had an alteration done, maybe right after he was born. When I killed him, the spiritual poison he was carrying infected me."

"...and that excuses the things you've done?"

"No."

"Väas is the only person you ever killed?"

"I'm a soldier," Heinrich said, "but he stands out in my mind."

"Heinrich—"

"The military is in on it."

Helena went to him, resting her hands on the warm stone of the balcony railing and gazing out over the city. The Imperial Quarter, of course, looked quintessentially Imperial, and it had been built for the tastes of the foreigners who lived there. It could have been a city district in Kajar or Valdinor, orderly and planned, laid out to the exacting specifications composed by a demigod.

Beyond it was the Anoran part of the city, the wealthier citizens lived near the Imperial Quarter, in stone houses with tiled roofs. The Anorans dyed the clay, so it was red, or green, or blue, and to Helena it looked gaudy and celebratory, especially compared to the drab Imperial buildings. The homes of poorer citizens were crowded into the packed streets of the middle city, or the slums near the docks. The Grey Quarter, where the exiled Gith had lived, was deserted and empty, and she could see the ruins of the telegraph tower that had been powered by the city's primary convergence. The military was already clearing away the rubble, but they would have to wait on experts to come from the mainland to rebuild it.

"I know," Helena said. "Aten and his men were there, working with the Bluegill witches and another monster. Every Imperial I saw was part of the Ramasian political party."

"Do you think it goes all the way back to Aneji?" Heinrich asked. "...and if it does, who else? Stormhand? Beckett? Laurent? Director Paladine?"

"Our father," said Helena.

Heinrich rubbed his face with both hands.

"I want to believe it was only Aten, acting alone," said Helena, "but it was too well planned. The pamphlets they found, the bombing, and the attack on the port — it was so well-coordinated, precise."

Heinrich was looking out over the city too, past the buildings and down to the ocean, where the Anoran sea-gate stood in the shadow of the Tower-Wall. Three great emplacements of black stone stood guard over the city, their great brass firedust cannons facing outwards. They had been brought here from Valindor, and each was carved like a lion's face, its teeth bared. The _Iron-Herald_ and the _Relentless_ floated, silent and watchful, in the dark waters of the bay, while the _Valiant_ was in dry-dock, being repaired.

"Once Aneji is the High Speaker," Heinrich said, "the fact that you and I are alive is going to be incredibly inconvenient to him."

"I know," Helena said. "Can we take this to Admiral Ombriss?"

"I can take it to him," Heinrich said. "You can go to Sudar, or wherever it was you were going, with that man."

"His name is _Constantine_ , you absolute _ass_." Helena glanced at her brother. "The creature that was with Aten, the monster, I didn't understand everything that was happening, but it said it was trying to start a war."

"With who?" Heinrich asked. "Helena, there's no one left to fight."

"There's each other," she said. "The military against the Magisterium, the nobles against the Senate. Valdinor against Belar."

"Why, though?"

"I don't know," Helena said. "It— the monster, it wasn't just a poisoned animal or a tainted human, Heinrich. It was cognitive, it acted intelligently and with purpose, so it must have reasons."

"You don't have to worry about its reasons," Heinrich said. "You can leave, I'll stay here and deal with the fallout."

"I'm not leaving," Helena said. "Not now."

"Oh?"

"It was one thing to run away from Aneji," Helena said. "It's another thing to turn my back now that I've learned these things. If there's a civil war in the Empire, it will reach every corner of the world. Nowhere will be safe. Not Sudar, and certainly not Anora. We must find out where the Anoran people were taken, and which parts of the military are involved, and then—"

Heinrich smiled thinly. "Then, what? Treason?"

"If it comes to that," Helena said, making up her mind on the spot. "Yes."


	13. figure the rest out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place eight years before the start of Session I.

Helgrin had been having the dream since he had first been created in Sancrist.

In it, he saw the sky breaking apart, heard the reverberating crescendo of the weapon as it primed. Felt the _noise_ of it in the back of his throat, in the chambers of his heart, in the soles of his feet, and then—

—then nothing.

The dream was normal, the physicians there had explained to him. He had once been a Shunari soldier, and like all of the other Shunari people, he had perished when the leaders of his country had tried to activate a weapon from the Age of Wonders. When humans died, their lives flashed before their eyes, and that was what he was seeing, so the reaction would fade in time.

They explained other things to him too. That even though the Shunari had tried to destroy Valdinor, the Valdinoran people were merciful to their enemies. Helgrin had been extracted from his defiled body, purified, and resurrected by the sorcerers of the White Registry.

...and in exchange for this, they now owned him.

He spent a full year in the _crèche_ , having the essentials of being human drilled back into him, though he developed quickly, and he seldom struggled to understand. He was taught how to speak, read, and write the Valdinoran language, how to follow the commands of the Valdinoran military officers, and about the nation's history. Later, he was trained to use swords and rifles and handguns, how to survive in the wilderness, and how to swim and climb. The physicians and Registrars were always impressed with his progress, but Helgrin wasn't sure if attracting their attention was a good or a bad thing.

On the anniversary of his creation, he was taken into the office of the Sancrist Director, a man named from the White Registry named Phineas Trell. Helgrin had no love for the narrow, stern-looking man, only an understanding that Alchemicals who failed to perform to certain minimum specifications were culled back into the vats. He had no concerns that would be the case with him, he was the best and strongest of the ones he had been created alongside, but there was a nagging fear that perhaps he had done too well, and that the Valdinorans wouldn’t like that either. They thought they were all descended from the Gods, and they didn’t like being shown up. 

He sat in the chair opposite Phineas, and the director took his pen out of his pocket and set it on the desk. Next to it, he put a gold coin, and Helgrin saw that he had a collection of them in a purse that sat on a side table. The coin had the face of Petrus Ilustrianus, the First Paladin, stamped on it in profile. Although Helgrin had seldom seen actual money, he knew that the Emperor’s solar seal was stamped on the side that faced downwards. 

He had no idea what to make of it, so he said nothing. 

“The Imperial military is the strongest in the world,” Phineas explained, and he gestured to the gold coin. “Partly because of our strong traditions, and party because service in the military is _strictly_ voluntary. We don’t employ slave or conscript armies, the way that some of the less... civilized nations do. Your commission, if you want it.”

“Is that what you want?” Helgrin asked. “For me to join the military?”

“It’s not about what _I_ want, Helgrin.” The Director gazed at him, his expression severe, and Helgrin was not entirely certain that was true. “It’s about what _you_ want. If you join the military and serve for ten years, your debt to Valdinor is paid. After that, you’re a free man and a citizen of the Empire.”

“...and if I don’t?”

“If you don’t want to be in the military,” said the Director, and here, he gestured to the pen, “you can join the civil service, and be a clerk or a secretary, or work on the relief crews, but since there’s almost no risk of death, Alchemical civil servants are never emancipated. You can sign an oath of service, if that’s your choice.”

Helgrin looked up at him. “So I have to join the military, or keep working until I die?”

Instantly, Director Trell’s expression told Helgrin it had not been the right thing to say. “Yes,” he said, bluntly.

“There isn’t a third choice?”

“No,” said the Director, and it seemed that he liked that question even less.

After less than thirty seconds of consideration, Helgrin reached for the coin.

*** *** ***

‘Free man’ meant something different to the men who ran the Empire than it did to Helgrin. 

Emancipated Alchemicals were not allowed to vote or hold political office, and while they were permitted to marry, it was only to other Alchemicals and humans in certain social castes — and almost no one would allow their child to marry an Alchemical anyways. They were allowed to own property, but since most Alchemicals couldn’t have children, their property defaulted back to Imperial ownership once they died. 

Alchemicals in the military were given a salary, though perhaps half of the money due was held in trust by the Imperial Bank, and only given to them when they were released from service. Which, of course, meant nothing was paid out if they were killed in the line of duty. 

Helgrin sometimes lay in bed, flipping the gold coin back and forth between his fingers and wondering if it had been the right choice. He had been a soldier in his last life, so he wasn’t entirely certain there was anything else. He knew though, that he wanted to be free, and that he would figure the rest out afterwards. 

The man he was being sent to serve was named Willard Laurent, or General Willard Laurent, to be more formal. Some of his veteran Alchemicals had been sent to pick up Helgrin and the others who had been selected, and Helgrin watched them curiously, wanting to know everything about their lives. At the very least, they seemed to hold the General in high regard, and that reassured him somewhat. The leader of the veteran Alchemicals, Laskarus, was emancipated, and that surprised Helgrin.

“Why does it surprise you?” Laskarus asked, and outside the passenger car of the train, the landscape flashed past. 

“If you’re a citizen, and you can do anything you want,” said Helgrin, “why stay in the military?”

Laskarus raised an eyebrow. “What else would I do?”

“I don’t know.” Helgrin considered. “You could go to school, or find someone to teach you a trade.”

“...but no one _would_ teach me,” Laskarus said, “because I’m an Alchemical, and that means I have bad blood and no father. Tradesmen have apprentices who are the sons of other tradesmen, and it costs money to go to school, Helgrin.”

“Oh.”

“Change your mind?”

“No.”

“Good,” said Laskarus, and he slapped Helgrin on the shoulder, “because it’s too late now.”

“What’s General Laurent like?” Helgrin asked.

“Alchemicals are expensive to make,” Laskarus said, even as Helgrin wondered what that had to do with General Laurent. “So the military can’t just throw your life away, but at the same time, with Alchemicals, there are no grieving widows or angry parents. If you get killed, other than your squadmates, no one much will care. Laurent is one of the good officers, and he’ll take care of you, but he expects a lot. The Director wouldn’t even have submitted you to him for review if you weren’t over-performing.”

“I was?” Helgrin asked. He knew he did better than his peers, but he had no idea what he was being measured against.

“By a very large margin,” said Larkarus. “...but don’t show up any of the Valdinor officers, they fucking _hate_ that.”

*** *** ***

General Laurent was half Othean and half Kajari, and though Helgrin didn’t like to admit it, that made it easier to like him. Laurent had olive skin and dark, closely-cut hair shot through with steel-grey streaks. The General was shorter than Helgrin and Laskarus were, but he had wide, broad shoulders, a square jaw, and a serious, but easy nature — different from the Valdinoran physicians in Sancrist, who were pale, brooding, and miserable. Laurent was handsome, Helgrin supposed, for a man of his age, but he wasn’t entirely sure how such things were judged. 

Alchemicals sometimes experimented with each other, but the idea had never intrigued or repulsed Helgrin. Men didn’t interest him, or so he believed, until he saw General Laurent’s _amercer_.

Helgrin had never seen anyone else like the sorcerer. He was beautiful, if that was the right word to use — since handsome didn’t seem to fit. His skin was pale, and his white-blonde hair was very long, though he kept it braided and tied up behind his head. He wore tall boots and voluminous, layered robes, all black. There was a teal sash pinned across his chest, and his House crest was a medusa’s face, its expression serene and alien. Laurent’s _amercer_ was Valdinoran, though Helgrin suddenly found he was willing to look past that, and he stared. 

“That’s a woman,” Laskarus said, helpfully, when he noticed Helgrin was staring. 

“What!?” Helgrin blinked and looked up at him, blurting the word out. They didn’t make female Alchemicals in Sancrist, and all the physicians there were men. “A what? Oh. That’s a—”

“A woman,” Laskarus repeated. “You’ve seen a woman before, haven’t you?”

“I—” Helgrin sputtered. “No.”

“Well, behave yourself.” Laskarus smirked and elbowed him. “That’s Lord Cassius Alamech's daughter, Helena.”

“Can I talk to her?” Helgrin asked. 

“Helgrin,” said Laskarus sternly. “Yes, you can, but behave yourself, and remember that women like that don’t carry on with Alchemicals.”

“Oh.”

*** *** ***

In the end, General Laurent proved easy to like, and Helgrin came to admire him the same way his other Alchemical soldiers did. Rank did not shield an Imperial officer from combat, even Generals — and Laurent never shied away from conflict or thought himself above working and fighting alongside his men. 

Helena was like Laurent, though her job was to support the Imperial Army with her magic. She would wade into combat alongside Laurent or the other officer cadres, tearing monsters and undead to shreds with fire and lightning, or raising walls of stone and water to protect the soldiers as they advanced. There were two other _amercers_ , who worked for the Colonels, but Helena was in a league of her own. 

As much as Helgrin liked Laurent, it seemed the General liked him too, and Helgrin guessed this had something to do with him ‘over-performing’. One day, Laurent took him aside and explained to him that they wanted him to be an officer. There were limits on how high an Alchemical could be promoted within the Imperial Army, but he could command other Alchemicals.

“...and of course, you get paid more,” Laurent said.

“But I still only see half of it, don’t I?” asked Helgrin.

In response, Laurent had laughed and clapped him on the back, as though that were a great joke, and Helgrin had agreed, because as always, there seemed to be no better choice.

Not long after Helgrin was assigned to Laurent and promoted, Helena met a man named Nathaniel Adrien Claret at a party and began seeing him. Nathaniel was a Colonel, and his wealthy parents (though they were far from being as wealthy as Helena’s father) owned land in the northeast of Othea. They produced wool there, and supplied it to the other Imperial states. 

“You see how it is,” said Laskarus, as they rode the train, to Ardath. “Everything in its place.”

Helgrin didn’t say anything, and he watched the world flash by, outside the window. 

“Nathaniel’s _amercer_ is an Alchemical,” Laskarus said. “Does that get your attention?”

“What’s his name?” Helgrin asked. 

“Liam.”

“How did he get magic?”

“Born that way,” said Laskarus. “He had the gift back when he was a Shunari, I guess.”

“It stays?” Helgrin asked. “Between lives?”

“Guess it does.”

Outside, they passed a platform that had been cut from grey stone. Other than a tiny shelter, there was nothing on it, though there was a lone man sitting inside. He wore a military uniform that Helgrin couldn’t identify, and it was all black, right down to his rank insignia and medals. There was an armband sewn around the man’s upper left sleeve, also black, as though he were in mourning. A glare of sunlight from the window obscured his face. 

“Who—” Helgrin began, sitting up, but when he looked again, the shelter was empty. In another second the train platform was gone, out of sight. 

“What is it?” Laskarus asked.

“Nothing,” said Helgrin. “Tell me about Ardath.”

“It’s a railway hub,” said Laskarus, “or what passes for one, out here. Supplies go from Ardath out to Palma, Gaetea, and Sata.”

“And they’re snowed in?” Helgrin asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought the relief crews did this sort of work?” 

“They do,” said Laskarus, shurgging. “When they aren’t busy elsewhere, and besides, Helena can do the work of a hundred men, since she can fly out to Palma or wherever and use magic to melt the snow off the tracks.”

The train braked suddenly and without warning, and Helgrin caught himself before he flew out of his seat. Laskarus, who had been sitting with his feet up, jerked backwards, grabbing the railing next to his seat in one hand and his rifle in the other. They glanced at each other.

“What’s going on?” Helgrin asked. 

“I don’t know,” Laskarus admitted, as he rose, and Helgrin did as well. “General Laurent said we weren’t stopping until we reached Ardath, so let’s go find out.”


	14. pinions of a great eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II of _figure the rest out_.

Above the gate that led into Ardath, someone had painted the words ‘broken tile’ over the town’s name in black ink. The characters were jagged and faltering, imprecise. They looked like they had been written by an inhuman hand, Hegrin didn’t like it.

Helena and Laurent stopped just before the gate, their boots crunching in the snow, and Helgrin and Laskarus came up behind them. Laurent signalled with one hand, calling his soldiers to a halt. Everything was quiet, and the town was cold and still. Helgrin didn’t hear anyone, or see any fires or lights. In the center of the settlement, there was a communication tower that had been built over the convergence — twice as high as the next-highest building, but it was dark from lack of power. No one had cleared away the snow on the roads.

“What... do those words mean?” Helgrin asked.

“Broken-Tile Wasting Sickness,” said Helena, answering him. “A plague that causes weakness and fever, organ failure, and then death.”

“There’s no cure?”

“No.”

“Is it contagious, _amercer_?”

“Only in certain stages,” said Helena, sweeping the empty streets with her gaze, “but it looks like their quarantine procedures failed, if they even had time to implement them.”

“Must be why they blocked the train tracks,” Laskarus said.

“There should have been a White Registry office in Ardath,” said Laurent. “We need to see if there are any records. Laskarus, Helgrin, sweep the town in teams. Stay within sight of each other, and defend yourselves, presume that anyone you find is already undead.”

“You heard the man,” Laskarus barked at the other soldiers. “Check those houses, and clear away this fucking snow for the General and the Lady amercer. Helgrin, go and find the White Registry office.”

Helgrin nodded to him and headed into Ardath, leading two squads of soldiers. There was a solemnity to the emptiness of the town, but they found no one, not even bodies. After the fourth house, Helgrin had begun to feel like an invader, and he waved the soldiers off, confident the answers weren’t inside.

The crest of the White Registry was a trellis and a red ulsamere vine (the Valdinorian symbols for eternal life), and a few blocks into Ardath, Helgrin saw the trellis-like gates of the government building through the snow-covered streets. “There,” he said, pointing it out, and they made their way over.

The building was in ruins, and the gate outside had been wrenched off its hinges. It was burned black, but that was no surprise, since it looked like the building had been firebombed. Angry, accusatory graffiti was scrawled everywhere, though the fire had rendered much of it unreadable. Wind had stripped the powdery snow in the wide courtyard away, and Helgrin crossed the bare grey stone to the building. Near the shattered front windows, glass crunched under his boots, but the majority of it looked like it had fallen inwards.

“Did they attack the doctors?” one of the soldiers asked. 

Sunlight glinted off the ruined glass, and it made Helgrin think of the soldier with no face. Inside, the White Registry office was burned black, the furniture and instruments unrecognizable and beyond slavage. “I think so,” said Helgrin. “I’ll check inside, maybe there’s something that wasn’t burnt up. Search the courtyard, see what you can find.”

The door was off its hinges, and Helgrin stepped over it to get inside. Even in the numbing cold and thin air, the offices smelled of burnt wood and scorched metal. There was a records room, a bit further back, but everything inside was burnt beyond recovery. Curious, Helgrin disturbed one of the books that was laying on the remains of a desk, and it crumbled to ash.

 _Shit_ , he thought.

In the back hallway were three bodies. It looked like they had been trying to flee and been overcome by smoke, but he was no expert. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, Helgrin approached them, putting his boot on the ankle of the closest one and bearing down with his full weight. The cadaver’s leg bones, brittle from the fire, snapped under the strain, but none of the bodies moved. Helgrin let his breath out slowly, relieved.

It was possible that they had died so quickly that the trauma and anguish hadn’t had time to infect their souls, and not for the first time, Helgrin wondered what his own dead body had looked like. He had heard that the Shunari dead were largely intact, and that the weapon had done very little damage to them physically, but he wasn’t sure if that was completely true. Valdinor and Othea had cleared all the land near Shunar and Eshaya’s borders, so undead incursions were rare in the modern day.

They would have to bury these three, but Helgrin doubted there anything left in the Registry offices that was of use to the General or the _amercer_ , so he turned and made his way back out. In the courtyard, Helena had come up the main lane with Laskarus and two bodyguards, and she was speaking with the soldiers.

“The building was firebombed,” Helgrin said, as he approached. “There’s nothing left, but I did find some bodies, _amercer_.”

Helena nodded. “One of the sharpshooters spotted something strange in one of the districts, it looks like new construction. I’m going to look into it for the General.”

“We’ll go with you,” Helgrin said, and he fell into step with Helena and Laskarus, along with his soldiers. In one of the other districts of the settlement, he could see the construction Helena was talking about. It looked like fence posts, poking out over the snow. The buildings there lay lower, and in places the drifts reached to the tops of doorways.

Helena stopped at the edge of the district, gazing out over it, her gold eyes narrowed against the glare. Helgrin wondered if she saw something the rest of them couldn’t. “It looks like they were trying build a quarantine zone,” she said, at last.

“Lot of good it did them,” Laskarus said.

“ _Amercer_ ,” said Helgrin. “May I ask you something?”

Helena turned to him and nodded. 

“I don’t understand,” Helgrin said. “Why would the people here attack the physicians?”

“Humans can be—” Helena paused, as though composing her thoughts. “Unpredictable at times. Petty, and short-sighted, especially when they’re angry and frightened. The doctors here would have had no comforting answers to give, and it must have enraged the citizens.”

Helgrin frowned. “...but if they had worked on the quarantine zone instead of writing angry graffiti and breaking windows, they might still be alive.”

“Helgrin,” said Helena. “How are old are you?”

“One year and ten months—”

“Emperor on His Throne.”

“Is that bad?” Helgrin asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, but—”

Down one of the streets, someone cried out, the noise an ugly, rasping sob that echoed through the emptiness of the settlement. Helgrin drew his sword in one hand and his pistol in the other. Laskarus brought his rifle to his shoulder and looked down the sights.

“Stay behind Helgrin and I, _amercer_ ,” he said.

Heading towards the source of the noise, Helgrin turned down an alley between two stone houses. At the end of the narrow space, there was a woman, or what was left of one. She was half-skeletal, her flesh charred black, and it looked like someone had tried to burn her and failed. Kneeling in the snow, she rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around herself. Occasionally, she would manage to loose a sharp, keening cry, but mostly she just sobbed.

Laskarus mouthed the word ‘ _nightgaunt_ ’, to Helgrin, and as he did, Helena and the other soldiers came up behind them. He glanced back to her and she nodded, just barely.

As Larkarus lined up the shot, Helgrin heard something click above them, stone on stone. He turned towards it, and saw another nightgaunt at the edge of the roof. This one was more intact, it hadn’t been burned up, and its teeth were long and black, straining eagerly out of its gums.

It leapt at Helena, and Helgrin moved between them without thinking, shoving her to one side. The nightgaunt landed on him, the weight of the creature slamming him into the drifting snow collected on the cobbled street, knocking the wind out of him. He had his sword between them, and it punched through the nightgaunt’s sternum and out the other side of its body. 

The blow didn’t kill it, and it bit down on his gun arm, near the elbow, just above where his armor-backed glove ended. Its teeth went right through his coat, and Helgrin felt them tear his flesh. The moment lingered, and then one of Helena’s bodyguards recovered from the shock and decapitated it. Down the alley, the other nightgaunt charged Laskarus and he shot it twice. It collapsed into the snow, thrashing, and he brought his boot down on its skull, to finish it off.

Helena seized him by the front of his coat and hauled him to his feet. Helgrin stared at her, wondering if she hadn’t seen that he was bitten. 

“ _Amercer_ , I—” he began.

“I’ll take care of you,” she promised, and she raised her voice. “Go! Go! More will be coming!”

They went back down the street as a group, and Helgrin saw that Helena was right. The grey-black shapes of the undead advancing on them, coming from the houses and side streets, where they had been waiting in ambush. A nightgaunt was smarter than a hunting dog, and it was not exaggeration or the scaremongering of Imperial propaganda to say that they possessed a certain sinister cunning. It might take three of four shots to put one down, and they could run. The lesser undead were not so dangerous, but there were more of them, and quantity had a quality all its own. 

The others must have been quiescent, but the nightgaunts had been hiding in the houses or under the snow, waiting for victims. The game was up now, and urged onward by the gaunts, the dead attacked them _en masse_ as they headed back towards the train station. Ahead of them, Helgrin could see the General and the others engaged with more of them, their greying bodies swarming the platform.

“They’re attacking the train!” Laskarus called out, as they ran and shot.

“I see them!” Helena answered. “Keep moving! Get to the General!”

She drew symbols in the air, in the secret language of magic, and hurled a ball of fire down the street, behind them. The spell flash melted the snow as it passed, then exploded, annihilating everything in the main thoroughfare, including the dead. The houses nearest to the explosion collapsed into splinters and sprays of scorched stone, and the fire roared through the connecting streets, alive with deadly purpose.

The afterimage of Helena’s wings lingered in the air, half-again as long as she was tall, the pinions of a great eagle. Her halo flickered into reality behind her shoulders, visible only for a fraction of a second, but Helgrin saw the word ‘ _helmsman_ ’ written across the top ring. 

Power boiled off her hands, and with another spell, Helena raised walls out of the stone streets to block off the undead pursuing them. The closest of the lesser ones died as they were crushed against the barriers by the press of bodies, but the nightgaunts leapt up the sides of the buildings or scaled the walls.

Helgrin was at the front of the company as they crashed into the undead attacking the train station, wedging them in between two walls of swords and guns. He was certain he was already dead, so he wasn’t concerned with being bitten again, and he fought fiercely. They broke through and joined the others in the train station, and as soon as it was safe, Helena ran ahead, to the General’s side.

The firefight went on for six more hours, well into the night, and each time there was a pause, they would rip up the benches or desks to barricade the doors or windows. In that time, they killed what Helgrin assumed was every person who had once been living in Ardath. Just before morning they had run of out ammunition and they’d been forced to get the last part of the work done with swords.

On their side, seventeen of Laurent’s men were dead, and since the counteragent for a nightgaunt bite was rare and expensive, Helgrin brought the number to eighteen. While the General and some of the other men were working the communication tower trying to contact the Capital, he went off to sit by himself, it seemed better to be alone. 

_Ten months is all you managed_ , he thought, chastising himself. _You couldn't_ —

He heard boots on the snow, and looked up. Helena was coming, and she had Laskarus with her. Her black robes struck a sharp contrast against the white snow, and her hair, which had been so neat on the train, hung down over her shoulders in a mass. The braids must have come loose at some point in the night. She looked exhausted, and there were weary grey circles under her eyes. There was blood splattered across her neck and her face, and it must have been all over her robes as well, it just didn’t show.

“There you are,” she said. “The soldier who saved my life.”

Helgrin was at a loss, but he stood up. “I was only doing my job,” he managed, at last. 

“Take off your gloves and your coat, Helgrin.” Helena came closer. “Let me take a look.”

“Can you cure me, _amercer_?” he asked, unstrapping the bindings of his gloves and setting the right one aside as he took it off, daring to hope that she knew of some miracle that he didn't. He slid his coat off his shoulders and pushed the sleeve his shirt up. The wound hurt, but somehow looking at it made it worse. The flesh around the bite was swollen and black, veins of the deathrot extending up his arm, towards his shoulder.

“No,” she said, and she reached out, feeling his upper arm with her hands. Helgrin had never been touched by a woman before, and he was suddenly glad that the wound commanded the majority of his attention. “My magic isn’t like that, and besides, you’ve been bitten for too long, you're rotting away. Laskarus is going to cut your arm off.”

“What?! No!” Helgrin jerked his arm away, and he looked to Laskarus for help, but the other Alchemical just looked grim. “No! I can’t be a soldier without my arm!”

“Helgrin,” she said, “you won't be _anything_ if you’re dead.”

“We talked to General Laurent,” Laskarus said. “He’ll have you commended to the civil service.”

_So I have to join the military, or keep working until I die?_

“I don’t want to be in the civil service.” Helgrin shook his head. “I want to be free.”

“Helgrin—” 

“You said you would take care of me,” he said to Helena, cutting Laskarus off. “If this is what you meant, I would rather have been left behind on the street yesterday.”

“Don’t talk to the _amercer_ like that,” Laskarus said, sternly.

“Helgrin,” she said, considering. “I— I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did, _amercer_.”

“Then I will.” Helena cupped his cheek in one hand and Helgrin froze he stood. Without warning, she touched her thumb to the center of his forehead and he collapsed into sleep, darkness closing over him.


	15. the darkness here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Session VII, from Sayah's perspective.

When Sayah woke up, she had no idea where she was, only that it was somewhere dark and cold. The air was very still, and it felt thin, as though there weren’t quite enough oxygen. Whatever it was, the effect made her dizzy and disoriented, and she sat up slowly, steadying herself.

The stone in the cavern around her was purple-black, and the ceiling was low, though she could have stood up without hurting herself. There were stalactites clinging to the ceiling, which meant it was a natural cave system, and that probably meant she wasn’t in the Bluegill Holdout anymore. 

Whoever had brought her here had covered her up with Aten Grede’s greatcoat, and she resisted the urge to throw it away. The air was cool and there was no proof it wasn’t going to get colder. If she was on the mainland, it would be fall in the Highlands, and she might need it — so instead, she pulled it around her shoulders. It was far too big, but she wrapped it around herself anyways, tying it at the waist. 

Sayah would have preferred Aten’s weapons to his coat, but she was resolved to take what she could get. Everything that had happened after the attack on the city seemed to have passed in a blur. 

She had seen Helena and Lenna leaving Heinrich’s estate in secret and followed them, concerned about what they were doing. It had done her no good, all three of them had been seized by Aten and his men almost as soon as they had passed the gate of the Imperial Quarter. Shortly afterwards, the raid had dissolved the Anoran capital into chaos. 

Men like Aten were not difficult to understand, and Sayah had always been grateful that Savitus had no interest in her. She had not been entirely fond of Heinrich, who seemed to return to his estate with a different woman (or women) every other night, but he had intervened almost instantly the first time Aten had put his hands on her. When Aten had come for her on the boat, Helena had stepped between them and thrown the hood of her raincloak back, shedding her magical disguise and threatening to murder Aten and his men on the spot for their effrontery. 

So perhaps both of the Arka siblings were not as bad as she had first believed. 

After that, Sayah couldn’t recall anything distinct, and thinking back made her head throb. She had been drugged, or perhaps she had fallen into a magically-induced trance. She wasn’t sure what had happened to Helena and Lenna — or any of the other women, for that matter — but wherever they were, they weren’t here. 

Carefully, Sayah stood up, rising from the hollow in the stone she had been laying in. 

_You’re awake_ , a voice said, echoing from nowhere, and Sayah looked around for the source of it, her head spinning. Near where she was, there were veins of luminescent rock, glowing softly in the dark. It was the only source of illumination, and the weak light provided less than ten feet of vision. 

“Who—” she began. “Who are you? Where are you?”

 _I’m at the other end of the cavern_ , it replied.

“Come into the light.”

_I can’t._

“Why not?”

_I’m not handsome, Sayah. I don’t think you’d like my appearance, I’m of the monster race._

“A monster who speaks Valdinoran?”

 _You say it like I’m the only one._

Sayah peered into the darkness, and she put her hand on the wall, as a guide. “Do you think you’re clever?” she asked. 

_On occasion._

“You obviously don’t want to kill me,” she said, “or you would have done it already. If I can’t see your face, can I know your name?”

 _Xhast._

“There were Bluegills with Aten and his men,” Sayah said. “Are you a Bluegill?”

_No,_ it said. _I’m an Illithid._

“What’s an Illithid?” With one hand on the wall, Sayah began walking, treading the darkness carefully. Every five feet, she would look back, to make sure the glowing veins of rock hadn’t vanished from sight around a corner or outcropping. If she got lost in the darkness here (though, admittedly, she was already fairly lost), that would be the end. 

_We’re a peaceful race of scholars. Pacifists who travel the galaxy seeking knowledge. My hemocaste, called **qex** , are chroniclers._

“I see,” said Sayah, immediately suspicious. “...so you’re saying that Aten Grede just gave up his coat because you asked peacefully? These are expensive, you know, and in the Empire, they’re status symbols for military officers.”

 _Forgive me_ , it said. _My kind lives in hiding, but I saw your predicament, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave you with him._

“Cooper and Savitus would have come for me,” said Sayah, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. 

_They did_ , said the voice, _but they ceased their search as soon as they found Helena._

Sayah stopped where she was, clutching the wall so tightly that one of her nails broke off. Compared to the aches in her body and head, she barely felt it, and it didn’t sting nearly as badly as the truth. She tried not to be jealous of Helena, of her status, and her beauty, and her power, all of it undeserved, but it was impossible. She hated—

 _You have no right to_ — she thought, to herself.

_You have every right, Xhast returned. That woman is no different in spirit than you are._

“Did you kill Aten Grede?” she asked, quickly, because if he was reading her mind, it was important to change the topic. 

_Yes._

“You’re a terrible pacifist, Xhast.” Something moved in front of her, coiling formlessly in the dark, and Sayah stopped again, wary, but not terrified. There was a scent in the air, like salt water and rusted iron, and it was curious, but it didn’t reek. “Is that your blood?” she asked. 

_Yes._

“You’re injured.”

_Aten Grede didn’t go gently. He shot me three times._

“Are you dying?”

_No._

“Good,” said Sayah, “because I need your help to get out of here.”

_Are you going back to the magistrates?_

“Yes.”

 _You care so much about men who are incapable of caring about you, Sayah._ She heard the scrabbling sound of something moving, directly in front of her, closer than she had believed, and fear seized her for a second. _My people abhor slavery in all its forms, but if that’s what you want, you aren’t my prisoner. I’ll take you to the surface._

“We’re underground, then?”

_In a manner of speaking. This is **Izeru-Thraxii** , the Other Land, or to be more specific about our exact location within it, this is the Underdark._


	16. the moon driving thunderheads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III of _figure the rest out_.

“Helgrin!” 

He looked up, towards the source of the voice and saw it was Charlotte Ashton. 

She was shorter than Helena was (though Helena was as tall as most men), and she had a round, wide face with a scattering of freckles across all of her exposed skin. Her pale brown hair was long, and each time Helgrin saw her, it was swept back into a bun. She was Helena’s close childhood friend, a physician from the White Registry. 

Like Helena, she wore a dress that went down past her ankles and swept on the floor of the train station as she walked. It was silver-blue, with some kind of shiny beads sewn into it in patterns that Helgrin didn’t understand and a wide, puffy skirt. Across her chest, she wore a navy-blue sash, secured with a silver pin shaped like the head of a lion. 

This was a curiosity of socialization that Helgrin was still getting used to. Men wore suits or (if at all possible) their military uniforms to fancy parties, but women had to get dressed up — sometimes so elaborately that Helgrin couldn’t figure out how all the outfits were put together. For his own part, Alchemicals didn’t typically own any clothing of their own, so Helgrin would have had to wear his uniform no matter what. 

Charlotte waved to him, lifting her skirts and crossing the train platform to where he stood with Helena and her older brother, Heinrich. In lieu of a date, Heinrich had his second with him, an emancipated Alchemical named Novus. Novus was from the _crèche_ at Claro, and he used that his surname, which was a touch unorthodox, but tolerated — which was probably because Novus and Heinrich had come down on the loyalist side of the Lahore Fleet Incident. 

Taking him by the hands, Charlotte kissed him on both cheeks and Helgrin stood there while she did it, stiffly. “How’s the prosthetic?” she asked. 

“It’s fine,” Helgrin said. 

“Good, good.” Charlotte went to Helena and embraced her, and they kissed on both cheeks, and then Heinrich. “I want to take a look at it as soon as I can get away from socializing with my father’s horrendous friends. Helena, love, you look ravishing.”

It was true. Although he had more experience with women now (enough to know what they looked like, at least), Helena remained uniquely beautiful. She wore a gown of wine-dark purple that clung narrowly to her body, and perhaps half of her hair was secured on top of her head, her blonde locks strung through with filigree gold chains. The style created the illusion that she was wearing a crown. It had taken two other women to help her dress and another three to do her hair, and if Helgrin had not personally seen her fighting alongside Laurent, it would be impossible to imagine her in the military. 

Helgrin would catch Heinrich glancing at her on occasion, and although he was Helena’s bodyguard, it was not a topic he dared to bring up. Heinrich was human, a Valdinoran, and a military officer, so he was allowed to do whatever he wanted. Helgrin instead pretended he saw nothing, and by this point, he was getting pretty good at it. 

“Thank you, dearest.” Helena and Charlotte linked arms as they stepped into the passenger car of the train. “You’re a delight, yourself.”

Heinrich and Novus followed them, and Helgrin went in last, already feeling uncomfortable. He disliked going to parties, but protecting Helena was his new assignment, and it had been approved by General Laurent after he’d been injured. How long this was going to go on, he didn’t know. The ironwood graft that had replaced his hand and arm had healed almost completely, and he missed Laskarus and the others. 

“Have you heard about this terrible business with Katrin and her wedding?” Charlotte asked. 

“No,” said Helena. “You absolutely must tell me.”

In response to that, Charlotte looked back at the three men, disparaging. 

“Ah,” said Helena, and she turned to face them too. “Of course. Heinrich? Can you, Novus, and Helgrin ride in the other compartment? This is private.”

“Of course it is,” Heinrich said. He stopped and slid the door of the adjacent compartment open and gestured inside. “Gentlemen, you heard the lady.”

Novus went in, but Helgrin lingered. 

“Something wrong?” Heinrich asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’ll stand guard outside Helena’s compartment,” Helgrin said. 

“No you won’t,” Heinrich answered. “Get in.”

There was nothing to be gained by disobeying him, and Helgrin glanced one last time at Helena and stepped inside, to where Novus was sitting. He told himself that nothing could happen to her when she was only a few feet away, but his mind kept going back to the nightgaunts attacking the train in Ardath. It was absurd, of course, this was the High Imperial Capital of Valdinor, not a settlement in the mountain outskirts. The compartment was fancy, and Helgrin tried not to touch anything as he sat down next to Novus. Heinrich came in after them, and he closed the door then slid the bolt, locking it. 

“Do you smoke, Helgrin?” he asked, taking a pack of cigarettes out of an inner coat pocket and putting one between his lips. 

“No, Commodore.”

“Why not?” 

“I can’t afford it.”

Heinrich chuckled at that. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag from it, then passed it to Novus, who took it. “Do you want one?” he asked, as he lit another.

“Still no,” Helgrin said. 

“Suit yourself.”

“What’s this about?” Helgrin asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Do you know Nathaniel Claret?” Heinrich asked, in return. “My sister’s boyfriend.”

“Yes,” said Helgrin. “I know Colonel Claret, and his _amercer_ too—”

“The thing about that,” Heinrich said, “is that my sister isn’t seeing Nathaniel _publicly_.”

“She sees him all the time.”

“Not publically.”

“I don’t understand,” Helgrin said. “Is Helena in trouble? Is Colonel Claret?”

“They’re going to be,” said Heinrich, “if you can’t keep your mouth shut. Helena is going to be at this party with a man named Aneji Ramas, a Senator. He’s been pressuring my father for a marriage contract for the better part of a year now.”

“Is Nathaniel going to be at the party?” Helgirn asked.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t this going to upset him?”

Heinrich leaned forward and tapped ash off his cigarette into a tray on the table in the center of compartment. “I don’t know,” he said. “Would it upset you?”

Helgrin considered. “Yes.”

“Then I imagine it would upset him.” Heinrich sat back. “Don’t speak to Nathaniel, or Liam, if he’s there. Pretend you don’t know either of them. If you need to talk to someone, talk to Helena, Novus, or to me. Or don't speak at all, if you can manage that”

“Did Helena tell you to do this?” Helgrin asked. Every time he had to deal with Helena's brother, it chafed, but the man was the hero who had saved the Capital during the Fleet Incident, and for the moment, the public adored him.

“Not in so many words,” said Heinrich.

“Is that everything?”

“No,” said Heinrich. “There’s one more thing. What the _fuck_ is going on with you and Charlotte?”

“I—” Helgrin blinked, and under the scrutiny of the officer’s gold eyes, he practically squirmed in his seat. Unlike his sister, Heinrich was fully human, but even his thin divine blood made him look imperious and daunting. “Nothing is going on. Charlotte is a physician. She worked on my prosthetic.”

Heinrich raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Helgrin, every time you’re together, she is _all over you_.”

“Women don’t carry on with Alchemicals,” Helgrin said, automatically.

“What are you talking about?” Heinrich took an annoyed drag from his cigarette, as though he had something against the act of smoking. “Women carry on with Alchemicals _all the time_.”

“Why?”

“Women love dick and there’s no chance of getting pregnant riding an Alchemical one.”

“But Laskarus said—”

“Whatever your sniper friend told you,” Heinrich said, “it was probably just to make sure you didn’t get yourself shot for chasing after my sister.”

“I don’t think Charlotte—”

“Thank back to ten goddamn minutes ago,” said Heinrich. “Did she kiss Novus on the platform?”

“No.”

“Did she bring a date to the party?”

“No?”

“There you have it.” Heinrich ground his cigarette out. “Go and fuck her.”

*** *** ***

“Helgrin,” said Helena, “this is my fiancée, Senator Aneji Ramas.”

Helena was as tall as most men, but Aneji was taller than she was. Probably the same height as her brother, and though he had Valdinoran features, his hair and eyes were very dark brown. Helgrin couldn’t tell if he was handsome or not, but when he took Helena by the hands and kissed her cheek she simply endured it, cultivating an emotionless expression. 

Aneji had three guards with him, all Stormhands, and that unsettled Helgrin. The Stormhands did not like Alchemicals, and the Illysian Legions considered them unfit for the military (or most tasks that weren’t hard labor). Helgrin might have been more critical of them, but they were dangerous, and at least they were willing to put their money where their mouths were, figuratively speaking. 

“Aneji,” she sent on, “this is Helgrin, my bodyguard. You heard about what happened in Ardath, eight months ago.”

“I did,” Aneji said, and he came forward, clasping Helgrin’s hands and then releasing them. “I can’t thank you enough, Helgrin. I can’t imagine what would have happened if I’d lost Helena.”

“I was just doing my job,” Helgrin said, automatically. 

“Proof of Shunari redemption before our very eyes. The war-debt will be paid someday, I'm sure of it.” Aneji smiled, but there was something false about it that Helgrin couldn't place. “I heard you had an ironwood graft done to replace your hand. Gods, Helgrin, that must have cost more than your body did. Helena, you should have just bought his contract.”

Helgrin was not entirely certain how much his body had cost Valdinor — or, for that matter, what the price of the graft had been, so he said nothing. He wondered if Helena had been put out by it. 

“I tried,” Helena said, “but after only ten months of service, the military wouldn’t sell it to me no matter what case I made.”

“Ten months—” Aneji glanced at Helena and back to Helgrin. “How old are you?”

“Two years and six months, Senator Ramas.”

“So young,” said Aneji. “We should expect great things from you, shouldn’t we?”

 _You could expect greater things if you would allow me to go to school_ , Helgrin thought, though he didn’t dare say it. 

“Yes, Senator.” Helgrin said that instead, nodding. “...but I don’t want to trouble anyone here. I just want my graft to finish healing so I can return to General Laurent and my regiment.”

Instantly, Helgrin realized something was wrong. Aneji’s eyebrows shot up and he looked to Helena, half-amused and half-condescending. The three Stormhands glanced between each other, laughing, barely audible. Awkwardness hung in the air, and Helgrin knew that not only was he the only one not getting the joke, but that it was on him.

“Return to General Laurent? You—” Aneji pinched the bridge of his nose and looked back up, his expression settling into annoyance. “Helena, haven’t you explained things to him?”

“I thought he understood—” Helena began, but Aneji cut her off.

“Helgrin, Helena isn’t going back to General Laurent,” he said. “After we’re married, just imagine how it would look if she was constantly running off into danger while I was working in the Capital. And Helgrin, the military isn’t going to pay for the maintenance on your graft, let alone have someone accompany your regiment to do it.”

“But, I—”

“Why would General Laurent want a crippled Alchemical with one fucking arm?” the leader of the Stormhands asked, incredulous, as though Helgrin had done something scandalous, or improper, just by being there. “You’re not even fit for factory work, _forged_. You’re useless.”

Helgrin had never heard anyone say the word _forged_ aloud before, but from the way the Stormhand sounded it out in Valdinoran, he knew it was an insult, and he bristled, grinding his teeth. Even as he did, worry rose up through his body, and he felt like he was sinking. Had Helena lied to him? Why would she do that? Heinrich had told him not to say anything, and now the Commodore would be furious with Helgrin for causing a scene, even though Aneji and his guards had started it. The Capital was terrible, and Helgrin loathed it, enduring only because he had thought that each day brought him closer to getting back to his friends.

“You should have been shot for wasting resources,” the Stormhand went on, loud enough that everyone nearby could hear, “and instead Lady Arka is letting you follow her around like a lost child. You’re lucky—”

Helena stepped between Helgrin and the other men. People were watching now, crowded all around, whispering to each other a few steps away from arms length, and Helgrin had never felt so exposed in his life. 

“Helena—” the Senator began.

“I don’t see why I can’t be in the military,” Helgrin blurted out, perhaps more defensive than he had intended. “If the Senator won’t fight, and he won’t allow Helena to fight, don’t you _need_ Alchemical soldiers?”

There was a rush of uproar among the people watching, and then they took to whispering among themselves, scandalized by words that, to Helgrin, seemed like the truth. The leader of the Stormhands took a step forward, his face twisted with anger. Helena ignored him. 

“Aneji," she said, and her voice was high and cold, her expression was serene, but imperious, the moon driving thunderheads before it. "Call your friend Sijit. Tell her that there are three of her Stormhands here who want to _die at their posts_.”

“Lady Arka,” the Stormhand and said, but Helena didn’t allow him to finish.

“Dassus,” she said, though she didn’t look at him. “I am still an _amercer_ to the Lord General, and when you address me, the first and last words that leave your mouth are to be ‘sir’. Is some part of that unclear?”

He hesitated, and Helena’s gaze fell on him at last. Helgrin could only see her back, but there was something in it that made the man flinch. 

“Sir, no sir.”

“Get back in your place.”

The Stormhand, Dassus, took a step back. 

Helena tilted her chin up, Helgrin found the attention of the crowd withering, but Helena didn’t even to seem to realize they were there. “Control your guards, Aneji.” It was an order, given to someone who was beneath her.

“Why don’t _you_ control your Alchemical—”

Heinrich had come to the front of the crowd with Novus and Charlotte. He pushed his way free of it, though the other two lingered. Somehow, his presence seemed to break the spell that held the party-goers in place. Everyone tried to pretend they hadn’t been watching, while Helena and Aneji turned and looked up at him. 

“Dassus,” Heinrich said, and his expression was dire, calculating. No trace of his sarcastic, smirking (and perhaps partially drunk) persona was evident anywhere. He pointed at the far door. “Take the Senator home. _Now_.”

The Stormhand nodded and Aneji clearly wanted to protest, but at the same time, seemed to realize there was no argument to be made. The Senator nodded to Helena, just barely polite, and left with his guards. Heinrich took his sister by the arm as though he weren't afraid of her powers, and dragged her towards him.

“We’re leaving.”

“You didn’t hear what he was saying,” Helena said, furious.

“I heard what _you_ were saying,” Heinrich returned, “and I long for the days when I was the only one dragging our family into disrepute. Let’s go. Helgrin, walk.”

Helgrin did, and the five of them went out together.


	17. more harm than good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Session VIII, from Sayah's perspective.

Sayah came to the base of the pillar, tilting her chin up to look at it.

It defined the entire cavern, which itself stretched for miles and miles. The apex was barely visible, but in the distance, Sayah could make out where it connected to the purple-black rock, supporting the roof of the cave structure.

Whoever had come before had cherished it dearly, she could see that. Every inch of its surface was enchanted, carved with names, sigils, and long-form spells, written in the secret language of magic. It had survived its keepers, enduring beyond the end of the world — a world whose weight it bore across its vast shoulders. In the darkness, it stood in silent vigil over the thousands of skeletons clustered around its base. Sayah wondered what had happened to these people, it looked like they had been trying to flee through this section of the city.

_It's called **Narbondel**_ , said Xhast, as he came up beside her.

The illithid hadn't been lying about his appearance, and Sayah could not conceal the fact that she found him hideous. He was taller than she was, close to seven feet, and his flesh was purple-grey, mottled with darker patterns that reminded her of port-wine birthmarks. Each of his hands had only three clumsy-looking fingers, though as they had made their way through the caverns, he had proved to be surprisingly deft.

The worst of it was his face. The upper half was noseless, but vaguely humanoid. Below that, Xhast lacked a lower jaw, four coiling tentacles in the place where his mouth should be. At a casual glance, they looked absurd, almost harmless, but at certain angles, the points glistened in the light, and if Xhast had slaughtered Aten Grede and his men, they could surely punch through leather and steel.

"Nar-bon-del," Sayah said, sounding it out. "It's magical?"

 _It's a clock_ , Xhast explained. _If you can believe that._

He had taken a walking stick from one of the houses they passed, and he leaned heavily on it. It was not an affectation, Sayah was certain he was suffering. She did not want to get into the habit of rescuing monsters, but if he died, she would be trapped in this place, starving to death in the darkness, or worse.

She glanced over at him. "You can explain how it works to me while you rest."

_We have further to go before there's a safe passage back to the Prime Material._

"You can't reach it if you're dead," said Sayah, looking back from the pillar to her unexpected savior. There were houses all around them, or that's what Sayah believed they were. On the cavern plateaus, there were grand estates — not _entirely_ different from human architecture, though the grounds of the buildings were overgrown and rotting. Bioluminescent fungi had burst through the walls and ceilings, starving them in and exposing their contents to the elements and the seasons, or whatever passed for them in this strange place.

Below the grand cliffside estates was the middle city. Surely its residents hadn't called it that, but Sayah had no other context. If they had been in the Empire, this is where the craftsmen and merchants would have lived. Those who were wealthy, but not so wealthy as the nobility and military elite. These buildings were like great apartment complexes, carved directly into stalagmites that stood many stories tall, though _Narbondel_ , the Clock, dwarfed them all.

"That one," Sayah said, choosing at random. She went back to Xhast's side, to help him along, and between her and the cane, they headed for the front gate.

 _Thank you._ The illithid's mental voice sounded the same as it always had, and though his bodily processes were a mystery to her, the noises he made suggested he was wheezing.

When they were inside, Sayah put her shoulder into the door of the first apartment, and it shattered into splinters. The interior was remarkably intact. The shared living complexes had no gardens, so the fungi hadn't destroyed the walls. The furniture was elegant and flowing, clearly inhuman, and she suspected it predated the Age of Wonders. It was only slightly surprising that it hadn't rotted away. The spells that could make clothing and wood imperishable were not impossibly rare, but they were certainly beyond the grasp of the Imperial middle class.

Xhast pointed to the first chair they found and Sayah released him as he all but collapsed into it.

"Wait here," she said. "I'll take a look around."

Leaving him where he was, Sayah went to toss the apartment.

She was far from being a trained Magistrate, but she had seen Cooper and Savitus do it a dozen times, and here there was no evidence to preserve or delicate papers that might be destroyed, just the pressing need to find something useful. _The dead can speak_ , Savitus had told her once — it was the oldest of Kajari beliefs — _if you know how to listen_ , and Sayah listened to the man who had lived here while she searched.

The furniture was human-sized, and in the apartment there was a bed, tables, chairs, eating utensils. A writing desk of carved stone. All of it was alien, but terribly familiar, something like human, but not quite. The man's clothing was made of some sort of strange silk, mostly black, but also purple, silver, and bold, striking red. It was strange to think of some craftsman or shop owner wearing Magisterial red, but of course, these people wouldn't have lived by Imperial customs. Each piece was different from the one before it — no uniforms, so she doubted he had been in the military, and the clothing, like the furniture, was of a size with humans.

On impulse, Sayah stripped off Grede's filthy greatcoat and threw it away. Her loathing for the man was impossible to put into words, and she wanted to be reliant on him for nothing. Pulling one of the narrow black cloaks out of the closet, she fastened it around her shoulders. When she had lifted it, she had been certain it was sized for a much taller man, but it settled around her body perfectly, resting just above her ankles and blocking the chill in the air. It was useful, but this didn't help Xhast.

In another room there were recreational objects, though she couldn't make sense of them. Boards with game pieces, cards and tiles of thin stone, and dice whose faces bore glyphs she couldn't read. One of the tile games was partially set up, though Sayah didn't bother with it as she opened each of the boxes in the room in turn. In one, her efforts were finally rewarded, amidst folded black cloth lay a set of vials and three syringes.

Even these were a wonder. Each of the barrels and plungers was made of treated adamant, magical glass so difficult to shatter that even the delicate syringes could likely have borne Sayah's full body weight. The needles were pure starsilver, imperishable, presumably so they would never require sharpening or replacement — only cleaning. They were probably worth near to a thousand gold each, and magic had been so common to these people that the middle class owned sets like this for, of all things, recreational drug use.

Setting all three syringes aside, she went through the vials. Each was capped with a glyph she recognized. The Celestial language hadn't changed since the beginning of time, and Savitus had taught her the basics of it, including all of the most common magical expressions. Most of the potions were drugs, ones whose uses she wasn't familiar with, but two of them were medicinal — the formulas identical to the ones used in Valdinor — most likely for use in the event of an overdose. She gathered up all three syringes and the two vials and went back to Xhast.

"Pull your sleeve up," she said, brusquely.

 _Those have been sitting here for thousands of years_ , he said, warily.

"Healing potions never go bad." Sayah punched the needle of the one of the syringes through the glyph on the first vial, drawing the medicine into it. "You... obviously don't have a proper mouth, so I'll inject you. They work almost instantly."

He hesitated, uncomfortable, and his hands clutched at the arms of the chair.

"You're joking," Sayah said. "You're afraid of needles? _You_?"

_I'm allergic to metal._

"You're what?"

_I'm allergic to metal, Sayah. It's genetic, endemic among my race. Silver is the worst, the needle will do more harm than good._

"You should have said something before I wasted the vial." Sayah sighed and put the syringe down. "Is that why you're not healing?"

 _It is_ , said Xhast. _Two of the bullets passed through my body, but the last one is lodged inside, and I didn't want to volunteer weakness to you._

"Emperor on His Throne. You're like Cooper and Savitus, but a thousand times worse!"

 _I don't think I'm anything like_ —

"Tell me how to help you instead of hiding that something's wrong. This is a situation we're in _together_ , not a fucking Magisterial inspection."

He stared up at her. Sitting, the mindflayer was still looming, but shorter.

"Well?"

 _The bullet must be removed_ , Xhast said. _After that, my body will heal easily on its own. So long as we're not dead, my race is extremely resilient._

"Other than your metal allergy."

 _Yes_ , he said. _Other than our metal allergy_.

"You can't pull the bullet out with your fingers?" Sayah asked.

_I've tried. I'm afraid not. The wound is far too deep._

"...and I can't cut it out with a metal knife."

_It would be less than ideal._

Sayah took one of the empty syringes and removed the needle, then held out the glass barrel. "Break it for me," she said.

 _I'm sorry_ , said Xhast. _What?_

"Break it," she said. "It's too strong for me, but I’ll bet you have some way. Break it, and I'll use the sharp edges to widen the wound, then dig the bullet out with my fingers. It's adamant, not metal, and if you're as resilient as you claim, it should be no issue."

_Now you're the one who's joking._

Sayah shook her head.

_If I lower my guard like this, what's to stop you from killing me?_

"I would be no better off."

 _Cold_ , said Xhast, _but fair. An approach my race appreciates._

He reached for the vial, not with his hands, but with his face-tentacles. Two of them coiled around it, flexed, and for a fraction of a second, she saw the near-vorpal glint on the tips. The vial split in two, imperishable glass offering no more resistance than a popper at a children's party. He let the two pieces fall into her waiting hands, the edges impossibly sharp, and quickly, Sayah used the edge of the cloak to hold them.

"Hold the arms of the chair," Sayah said as she readied them. "Because this is going to be agonizing."


	18. violence in the chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place approximately 16,000 years before the beginning of Session I.

Xhast had only just arrived, and already, he wanted to leave. The machinations of his peers bored and frustrated him. Their constant squabbling, the clumsy manner in which they grasped at power, their petty hatreds and jealous schemes. Their gluttony and pride. Still, at the end of it all, he was a member of the Elder Council, and he was bound to them by a pact as old as the Empire itself. 

He longed to be with Sayah, for her simple, clear thoughts and the comforting warmth of her body. The softness of her tiny hands, the feel of her hair when he curled it around his fingers. His feelings for her were something that had to be maintained discreetly — hidden within an impenetrable maze of mental defences, lest his peers discover them and decide they amounted to intolerable weakness.

_You’re late_ , Vokt said, as Xhast approached the circle of ancient mindflayers. The other illithid’s annoyed thoughts felt like the sting of a poisonous insect.

_I know_ , Xhast answered, as he sat down on one of the curved stone benches, taking his place among them and refusing to rise to Vokt’s barbed jab. _I didn’t want to come. Show the object to me_.

Across from him, Qjaah gestured, and the object laying on the stone altar at the center of the room levitated about a foot in the air. It was a pale grey circle of some unknown material. Small enough that it could have sat in a human’s palm. It reminded of the jewelry some of them wore, but the edges were too flattened out for a human to wear it comfortably. When he reached out to examine it with his psionic senses, he felt pain and anguish, betrayal. The object seemed to be both stone and metal, having the qualities of both without truly being either.

_What is it made of?_ Xhast asked, curious, even as he withdrew his thoughts. 

_Karach_ , said Qjaah. _Chaosmatter._

_If it came from Izeru-Thraxii, how can it exist on the Material Plane?_ Xhast swept his gaze across the other Elders. _Is this some scientific breakthrough I was not informed of?_

_Not precisely_ , said Vokt.

_Then what_ , said Xhast, _precisely?_

_A gith made it_ , said Qjaah, and Xhast sensed bitterness in his fellow Elder's thoughts. The ugly black distaste that was the common reaction to lesser beings, especially those in the slave races. Qjaah lowered his hand and the ring clattered back down to the surface of the altar. _He manifested it out of Izeru-Thraxii, through sheer willpower. Can you believe it?_

_Yes_ , said Xhast, plainly. _I can. Because it's sitting right in front of me, Qjaah._

Qjaah began to rise from where he sat, and Xhast sensed the other illthid's thoughts tint. The hot red of anger and violence, the stark black-purple of hatred. Vokt and Taliix caught him by his robes and pulled him back down. Violence in the chamber of the Elders was verboten, but that didn't mean illithids were never murdered there.

_Xhast_ , said Vokt, narrowing both sets of eyes.

_Forgive me_ , said Xhast, cultivating his auras to be certain his fellows could see the complete late of contriteness in them. He folded both of his sets of hands together and sat back. _Let me make myself useful. Why does it feel like that?_

_Like what?_ asked Qjaah.

_As though it's in pain_ , said Xhast.

_Because I had the gith who made it flayed alive_ , the other Elder said, hurriedly. His tentacles coiled. _We began the gith cultivation project because we believed their thoughts would stop disrupting Izeru-Thraxii in the way humanity's did. This is proof that the project failed. We must begin again._

_There are far too many now to kill them all_ , said Taliix. _We can't possibly... what? Begin again? Preposterous. Consider the logistics involved. Was it just the one?_

_I don't know_ , said Qjaah. _How could I know? Keeping track of slaves is not my job. The **harjor** do that._

_If you hadn't killed him_ , said Xhast, _we could have asked._

_If I hadn't killed him_ , Qjaah retorted, it would have been a disaster. _If he made this, with more practice, he could have made anything._

_I agree with you about one thing_ , said Xhast. _It's going to be a disaster._

_..and why is that?_ Qjaah asked, demandingly.

_Because_ , said Xhast. _Now they know they have to hide from us._


	19. hear the answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime between Session IX and X.

The hanging curtains in Heinrich's room were thrown wide, and sunlight shot into the room like a flare going off.

Heinrich, who had been sleeping off a hangover, screamed in protest, as did the two women who were in bed with him. One of them was Othean, and her red-brown hair fell to her mid-back. Her name escaped Heinrich, but she rolled off of him and pulled one of the pillows over her face, mumbling complaints. The other woman was Tobias Dell's wife, Violet — who had come to his estate to rant at him about Obelisk and her husband's 'stolen' Alchemical. Whether the confrontation had or hadn't gone the way she planned, Heinrich wasn't entirely sure.

"Helena," he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes to clear them. The headache he had seemed to be fixed behind his eyes, but manageable. "For fuck's sake, could you not—"

...but it wasn't Helena, it was the Gith.

Like the Othean girl, the name of Gith escaped him. Heinrich had only seen him once before, down in the Grey Quarter, and he had only spoken to Obelisk.

In fact, before coming to Anora, he had never seen a Gith at all. He had heard that there were communities of them living in slavery in Belar, where they were put to work mining out the Godscar — since the radiation didn't affect them, but there were no Gith in Valdinor, and certainly not in Kajar or Illysia. They had all been driven off, or killed, or they had vanished into the Imperial Palace during the Procession, on the Emperor's orders.

When he had first come to Anora, he had been surprised to hear that the Gith lived openly among the Anoran citizens, but ultimately, they were not his business. Heinrich's job (and it was something he was exceedingly good at) was to make sure the Bluegill didn't prey on Imperial ships, not to chase all the Gith out of Queen Ahrihi's city. The Queen had told him they had never caused trouble, and Heinrich had accepted that warily — though it felt odd to live in a city that openly allowed non-humans to walk the streets.

This Gith did not look like the others, and he wondered if there might be different ethnicities or tribes of Gith, in the same way it was with humans. The Gith down in the Grey Quarter were, well, grey. They all would have been shorter than the one who stood in Heinrich's room (and whom he guessed was close to the same height as he was). More than, they were wretched, though it seemed uncharitable to describe them like that. Ahrihi had once told him they were in exile, but what that meant, Heinrich had no idea.

The Gith wore clothing that was all black, as though he were an _amercer_ , with a heavy, hooded cloak, despite the Anoran heat. There was a holster of black leather around his chest, so Heinrich guessed he had a sidearm. In one hand, the Gith held a sword. The weapon had the look of something that was neither metal nor stone, but instead a material with the qualities of both.

He was quintessentially inhuman, with dark green skin that had mottled patterns all across it. In the past, Heinrich had been told that all Gith had black hair, and it was true of all the ones he had seen, including this one. The Gith's ears were pointed, and his mouth was flat and nearly lipless. Insead of a proper nose, he had a slitted ridge in the center of his face. There was a narrow gauntness to his frame, even though he had the look of a warrior.

"Out," said Heinrich, to his bedmates, sternly. He turned the Othean girl's head so she could see what was happening.

Wide-eyed, the two women rose from the bed and fled, snatching up their clothes and shoes and making themselves scarce. Neither of them dared to make eye contact with either him or the Gith who stood near the window, blocking the balcony doors.

“Did you have to do that?” Heinrich asked, as soon as the bedroom door slammed shut.

"Where are the people from the Grey Quarter?" the Gith asked, and he took two steps forward, towards the foot of the bed.

Heinrich, who knew an assassination attempt when he saw one, looked around for his own weapons. The holster the held his sidearm was laying over a chair near the door, along with his swordbelt and most of his other clothing. It may as well have been on the moon. "I don't know," he answered, truthfully.

"I don't believe you."

"The Navy searched the entire Retreat," Heinrich said. "We didn't find them, not even bodies."

The Gith frowned. "The Imperials took them from Anora."

"Not my Imperials," Heinrich said. "You know, I told the Magistrates you were gone. They're going to put my balls in a vise if they find out you're still around."

"I changed my mind," said the Gith. "I'm not leaving without the rest of my people. Which Imperials took them, if not yours?"

"Ramasians," said Heinrich.

The Gith's eyes narrowed. "Who is their leader?"

"Aneji Ramas."

"Where is Aneji Ramas?"

"In Valdinor." Heinrich raised a eyebrow. "What next? Want his address?"

"Yes," he said. "Do you know it?"

"Gith—"

"My name is Haur'Naluk."

"You need to slow your fucking roll, Haru'Naluk." Heinrich held up one hand. "Even if you're some kind of Gith _amercer_ , you can't just—"

"I'm not an _amercer_ , I'm a Zerth."

"What's a Zerth?" Heinrich asked, genuinely curious. He wondered if that was what made Haru different from the exiles in the Grey Quarter. "Are they... the leaders of the Gith or something?"

"Historically speaking," said Haru, "that question has never led anywhere good."

"Just answer it."

"No," said Haru. "Zerths protect the Gith, solve problems, hunt monsters."

"One more question," said Heinrich.

Haru'Naluk had come to the foot of the bed. He rolled his eyes.

"Do Zerths drink alcohol?"

*** *** ***

Heinrich lined up the shot glasses deftly and poured out six shots, brown-gold alcohol splashing against the clear glass. He wasn't dressed, but he had one of the sheets from the bed tucked around his waist, and it trailed behind him on the floor as he walked. Haru had his sword sheathed, for the moment, but Heinrich's own weapons were still too far away to make a grab for. 

"I thought you couldn't speak Valdinoran," he said. "Or any Imperial language, for that matter."

"Magic." It was the only explanation Haru offered. He peered at Heinrich's tattoos. "Are you in the death cult of the Stag?"

Heinrich nodded, and Haru said nothing else on the subject.

"What's that sword made of?" Heinrich asked, eyeing it.

" _Karach_ ," said Haru. "Chaosmatter."

Heinrich raised an eyebrow as he screwed the cap back onto the bottle.

"A magical material that Gith use," Haru explained. "Like Valdinoran truegold. It comes from the Other Land."

"I thought that—" Heinrich paused, and pushed three of the glasses across the table to Haru. "My sister is an _amercer_ , from the Black Registry. They've explored parts of the Other Land, so has the Magisterium. I thought it was impossible to bring matter from there back to the Prime Material."

"Not if you're a Zerth," said Haru, as though that explained everything. He eyed the three glasses, but didn't take one. "Where did this... Aneji Ramas take my people?"

"My guess," said Heinrich, downing the first shot, "is that he found a divergent vein of the Godscar, and he wants to mine it out to make a private army. Another one, I suppose, since he already has the Stormhands to back him. So probably to Belar, or somewhere near there."

"How do I get to Belar?" Haru asked.

"You don't," Heinrich answered.

"You could take me."

"I could." Heinrich sat down on the couch and stared up at the Zerth. His gold eyes usually made people uncomfortable when he stared at them, but Haru didn't flinch under his gaze and, Heinrich allowed his estimation of the man to increase, just a little. "...but I won't. I can't leave my post, there's more at stake than you realize."

"I don't care about human politics, or the Valdinoran military."

"Fine," said Heinrich. "Then let me put it this way, you can't help the people who were taken, but you can help the people who escaped."

"You just want me gone."

"Why did you save Cooper?" Heinrich asked, and when he saw the look on the Gith's face, he added, "Serious question."

"He needed saving." Haru took the first glass and downed the shot, swallowing easily.

Heinrich did his second shot. "He's in the Magisterium."

"He wasn't wearing his uniform." Haru followed suit and did the second shot, setting the empty glass inside the first one, in a neat stack.

"Don't try and tell me you didn't clock him the second he opened his mouth." The third. "You see a Valdinoran man barking orders and waving his guns around and then come to me and try to tell me you didn't figure it out?"

Haru looked away, his own third glass in hand. "That doesn't change the answer."

"I have another question," Heinrich said. "Why didn't—"

Haru turned back, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't ask it."

"But—"

" _Don't_."

"If you can save Cooper for no reason, why couldn't one of you have just healed the Emperor?" Heinrich asked, ignoring the protest. "Why let the Procession go on as long as it did?"

"So it's our fault?" Haru asked, frowning. "We're the ones to blame for human violence?"

"No, that's not how I meant it, but—"

Haru gestured, drink in hand. "Pour yourself three more," he said. "You're going to need them, after you hear the answer."

Dutifully, Heinrich did it.

"No Zerth could have healed your Emperor," Haru said, "but let me assure you, they all died trying."

Heinrich looked up at him, still holding the bottle, caught in the middle of taking a breath.

"...because the Emperor didn't catch the Godcurse, _Arka_ , he's the source of it."


	20. arouse suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the Player Characters left to climb Carnatae.

**OTH-314 NK-12**

Director,

Be advised that I have located former Subject 31’s (Claudia von Adenau) son in Dunrae. It calls itself Torsby DuPont (presumably shares a surname with former Subject 77, Richard DuPont???), hereafter it will be referred to as Subject 108. 

Strongly suspect that the subject is carrying one or both missing Workings. 31 and 77 seem to have fled to Anora, both Arka siblings either unaware or failed to report. It may be possible to achieve success with a second strain subject (as per my research). 

Extraction may be impossible, 108 is traveling with two Magistrates (Savitus Augustus and apprentice), two Outcaste God-Blooded, and the Arka Heiress — VERY WELL GUARDED. Detaining 108 over a ‘discrepancy’ in identification papers is not recommended, Magistrates or the Heiress will likely have it cleared, facetious arrest may arouse suspicion. 

Please advise.

**VAL-402 CA-16**

Do they have a Gith with them?

**OTH-314 NK-12**

No, Director.

**VAL-402 CA-16**

Continue observing. Do not engage with either Magistrate.

Augustus a very strong potential for the ritual, apprentice may serve as leverage.


	21. grew up tall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place approximately 5000 years before the beginning of Session I.

"If Agrippa and Scipio catch you with that repeater, they're going to be furious."

Gabri looked up from his work to see Nakos standing in the doorway. He was from Patokya, which had been in the Southern Hemisphere, and he looked typical of his people, with bronze-brown skin and brown-black hair. He shaved it on the sides, but it grew in longer on the top of his head. Standing, he would have been taller than Gabri by a few inches, and his eyes were very blue.

"They're on the _Vis Vitalis_ ," Gabri said, reaching over and turning down the music the repeater was playing, just slightly. "With Petrus and Silas Garn. So they aren't going to know unless you tell them."

"What are they doing over there?" Nakos, stepping into the room and sliding the door halfway closed.

The room in question was the Ark's medical bay, but the semi-private chambers opened out into one the ship's water reservoirs. Space was at a premium, especially considering that for thousands of people, Gabri was the first-ever physician who had been trained to work exclusively on humans. It was hard for him to understand what life must have been like for the people fleeing the Illithid Empire, since Gabri knew he had been a source of never-ending terror for them when he had first come aboard — to the point that the primary helmsman had tried to convince Petrus not to bring him along.

To them, a doctor was the one who decided when a slave had grown too old or too crippled to work, and after that, you were food for your master. The idea of a doctor who _helped people_ was so outrageous that it bordered on absurdity. It had taken a great deal of coaxing for Gabri to be allowed to even perform basic examinations, but once they had realized he was there to help them, administering to the people on the Ark had consumed all of his free time. There had barely been a second to breathe, at least until the people from Ravnica and Innistrad had come aboard with their own physicians.

"They're retrofitting it," Gabri said. "For when we get home. Sol is one of the most well-traversed systems and after... after the cataclysm, there's going to be a lot of derelicts between us and Terra. Mars is probably unreachable, think the debris the orbiting stations would have left if they collapsed.”

“So they’re going to use the _Vitalis_ to clear them out?” 

Gabri nodded. “If they have to. Either tow them or shoot them down.”

“It makes sense,” said Nakos, “since none of the lifeboats are combat-capable. How did you sneak the repeater and the discs for it on board?”

“What? Am I being interrogated?” Gabri laughed. “I put it in an ammunition case and put the case in the middle of a stack.”

“Unbelievable, even for someone born in the United West.” Nakos crossed his arms. “What did you do with the ammunition, then?”

“I dumped it off the edge of the embarkation bay.” Gabri leaned on the table, putting his elbow on the stack of papers and resting his chin on his hand. “Handcuff me.”

Nakos snorted, and then attempted to look serious. “Petrus is going to be even more furious with you for wasting ammunition, Gabri.” 

“Why?” he asked. “I mean… we aren’t going to need it in the new world.” 

“I—” Nakos stared at him. “ _What_?”

“Who are we going to fight?” Gabri’s tone turned serious. “The Grey King and his people? The Gith? Each other? What would be the point?”

“You think there’s going to be no more fighting, ever?”

“Not like there was.” Gabri searched his face. “Nakos, we’re the only ones _left_. Why would we fight with each other?”

“The end of war?”

“Has a nice ring to it,” Gabri said. “You’ve got to admit.”

“The only thing I’ll admit to is that if there were only two people left alive, they’d still find a reason to murder each other—”

“Excuse me—” said a voice from the doorway, and Gabri looked up to see Nashira, the Ark’s primary helmsman, framed there. 

Compared to Nakos, she was tiny, standing shorter than the center of his friend’s chest, and Nakos wasn’t even wearing his armor. Her skin was white-grey, and it was stretched thinly over her frame. Her eyes were blue, like Nakos’ were, but they had the look of being bulbous, as though they were too big for her head. Each of her hands had only four fingers, as the final digit had been surgically removed. It was something common in those who had been ‘visible’ slaves, since illithids had apparently found it unsightly. Her hair, cut closely to her head and unstyled, was wispy and white. To Gabri she looked alien and childlike all at once, barely human — though he supposed that had been the point.

“Who—” she began, and then took a deep breath, as though gathering her thoughts. Gabri waited. Nashira pointed at the repeater. “Whose voice is that?”

“Freddie Mercury’s,” said Gabri, as he looked to the repeater, then back to her. 

Nashira nodded to him, craning her neck and looking around. “...and, um, is he here?”

“You mean,” said Nakos, “did we bring him with us, on the Ark?”

She looked between them, and Nakos looked at Gabri. 

“No, helmsman,” said Gabri. “I’m afraid not. He’s been dead for several thousand years.”

“But I can hear him, he’s right _there_ —”

“It’s a recording,” Gabri explained to her, gently. He rose from where he was sitting, guiding Nashira over to his desk, where the squat, grey repeater sat. “I’ll show you.”

He pressed one of the buttons on the front, to change the track that was playing, and Nashira jumped, clutching at his arm. She looked up at him, her expression demanding explanation. 

“A recording is an impression of someone’s voice, the same way a drawing or photograph is an impression of how they look,” Gabri said. “Like carrying a picture with you.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “His voice sounded like that, all the time?”

“Er, yes and no, helmsman.” Gabri eased her hands free of his arm. “He’s singing. He was a singer.”

“Singing?”

“You know, _music_ , but with your voice.”

“No—” Nashira shook her head, but then her face lit up. She clutched her hands together. “Did you bring any singers with you from Terra?”

“Oh,” said Nakos, with the tiniest pause between the words, for emphasis, “my _god_.”

“Cut that shit out,” said Gabri, glancing to Nakos. “Agrippa and Scipio are going to like your religious bent even less than than the repeater.”

“They’re not going to know unless you tell them.”

Gabri supposed that was true, and he turned back to Nashira. With great solemnity, he put his hands on her shoulders, and she practically disappeared beneath them, the difference between their bodies was so great. “Helmsman,” he said, “ _Primaris_. Everyone can sing. Watch this, I’ll prove it. Nakos and I are about _to blow your mind_.”

Nakos listened for a moment, moving his head to the music, almost imperceptibly. “— _you who grew up tall and proud_ —” He sang, just a little louder than the recording, snapping his fingers to get in rhythm. Nashira’s eyes widened, gawking at him in pure wonder. 

“— _in the shadow of the mushroom cloud_.” Gabri let go of her shoulders and joined in.

“ _Convinced our voices can’t be heard_ —”

“ _We just wanna scream it louder and louder and_ —” Gabri jolted back and cut himself off. 

Agrippa was standing in the doorway, watching the three of them.

…and from his expression, Gabri guessed he had heard everything.


	22. toward both horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place one week before Session X.

“Helgrin,” said Helena as she sat down next to him. “What are you writing?”

They were in the Relay Station in Landow, which was the closest major settlement to Dunrae. Savitus had brought them there to summon the railway officials, and even with magical assistance, they had spent the better part of the night walking. Helena’s feet ached and her back felt stiff, to say nothing of the uncomfortable fact that she was forced to admit she was closer to thirty than twenty now. 

Helgrin hadn’t complained the entire time, though Helena doubted he would. She was fairly certain that he saw the whole journey as both a welcome departure from Heinrich and his chance to get back to General Laurent. He wore his first (and only) civilian outfit, which Savitus had ordered Heinrich to buy him before they left, but it would have been impossible not to see him for what he was. Helgrin looked classically Shunari, he carried himself like a soldier, and the tattoo from Sancrist was visible under the collar of the shirt he wore. 

“A letter to Charlotte,” he said. He had been writing on one of the tables near the benches, but now he folded the letter closed and put one hand over it. 

“I’m afraid I have to read that if you’re going to post it,” Helena said. 

“I—” Helgrin flushed, almost to the tips of his ears. “You do, _amercer_? You’ve never needed to read my mail before.”

“I know,” said Helena. “I respect your privacy, Helgrin, and Charlotte’s too, but now that we’re traveling with the Magistrates, it’s vitally important that you don’t discuss their work, even through the Relays.”

“This letter has nothing to do with the Lord Magistrates,” said Helgrin, quickly. “I promise.”

“I’m sure you think that,” Helena said, patiently, “but if the conspiracy is as widespread as Savitus believes, even something innocuous could tip them off. I know you would never knowingly betray us, Helgrin, but you might do it accidentally, and if you write the wrong thing, it could put Charlotte or Laskarus in danger.”

Hurriedly, Helgrin folded the letter in half again and pinned down the edges. “I’ll just throw this in the trash and start over,” he said. “You can help me write the new one.”

“I need to see it even if you throw it in the bin,” said Helena. “Someone could pick it out of the trash.” 

“ _Amercer_ , please.”

“Helgrin.” Helena put her hand on his arm. “I was engaged, I’ve seen love letters before. I’ve written them myself. You’re not going to scandalize me.”

Helgrin hesitated, and then, with extreme reluctance, handed the folded paper to Helena. She flipped it open, blinked, then snapped it closed again. Then, because she weren’t quite certain about what she’d seen, she checked it again. She felt her cheeks heat, and again, she snapped the paper closed.

“This is a drawing of _someone’s cock_ ,” she hissed out. 

Helgrin squirmed where he sat, on the wooden bench in the Relay Station. “It’s not, uh, the cock of someone _anonymous_ , _amercer_.”

Helena handed the paper back to him without saying anything.

“I told you it wasn’t about the Magistrates,” Helgrin said, and he covered his face with both hands. “...also, I’d like to die now, if it’s all the same to you.”

She cleared her throat. “You were going to send that to Charlotte, though the Relays?”

“I like Charlotte,” Helgrin said, the words muffled through his hands, “and I miss her. The last time she sent me a letter, she said she missed... certain things... about me, so I thought maybe she would want a reminder of—”

“It’s incredible, really. Very impressive.”

Helgrin looked up, he blinked. “Do you... do you really think so, _amercer_?” 

“I meant the _composition_ ,” she said, gesturing with one hand, though she couldn’t look him in the eye, and instead, she watched the lines of people as they inched along towards the Relay clerks. “The way piece comes together on the page. The use of, er, lighting. You certainly have an....” Helena gathered her thoughts. “...an eye for detail, Helgrin.”

“ _Amercer_ ,” he said, clutching the paper with one hand. “I can’t handle this, I really can’t.”

“I don’t—“

“Can we talk about Novus!?” Helgrin blurted out, interrupting.

“Lunarus, yes,” said Helena, latching onto the change of subject immediately. “We should talk about Novus. What about Novus in specific?”

“He got an emancipation,” said Helgrin, “but a real one.”

“You mean a full elevation,” said Helena.

Helgrin nodded. “Do you think I could get one too? If I help you to save the world?”

“Helgrin,” said Helena. “Full elevations of Alchemicals are incredibly rare. In the entire history of the Empire, there have been fewer than sixty awarded.”

“I know,” said Helgin. “Novus was the fifty-seventh. He told me about it.”

“If you still want to go to school,” Helena said, “Heinrich and I will pay for it. Is that what this is about?”

“That’s kind of you, _amercer_ , but that’s not what this is about.” He looked at her, any traces of his embarrassed grimace gone. Instead, his expression was clear and serious. “I want to ask Charlotte to marry me.”

*** *** ***

Helgrin followed Helena and the Lord Magistrate down the road, towards Dunrae. 

They walked together, talking like old friends, and Helgrin walked a little behind, his rifle slung over one shoulder. He doubted he would need it — there was no one alive foolish enough to attack travelers wearing Magisterial red and Admiralty blue, but he thought of the rumors of monsters coming down from the mountains, and kept his gaze alert. 

Helena had allowed him to post _the letter_ to Charlotte, and promised never to speak of it again, but Helgrin still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were talking about him. He felt his face burn as the matter came to mind.

Othea was a beautiful country, and though Helgrin had twice now taken the train to Thalis with Helena, he had only ever passed through and never truly seen it in the flesh. It seemed calmer, somehow, than Valdinor was, the pace of life more relaxed and easy. Even Landow, which was a major settlement, had few buildings higher than three stories, and most of the land they passed was farmland. It seemed to stretch in every direction, like a green carpet, reaching toward both horizons. 

Out of nowhere, Savitus stopped walking and turned to face him. 

“Helgrin,” he said. “Helena tells me you want to get married to Lady Charlotte Ashton.”

“I—” Helgrin looked to Helena, who nodded a little, encouragingly, and he turned his gaze back to Savitus. “Yes, Lord Magistrate, I do.”

“No one can accuse you of setting your sights to low,” said Savitus, smiling. “Can they?”

“I suppose not, Lord Magistrate.”

“Maybe I can help you with that,” Savitus said. Next to the road, there was a waist-high fence that framed in a field where tri-horn cattle were grazing, and the Magistrate leaned on it. He pointed down the road. “Do you see the road sign there, for Dunrae?”

Helgrin’s eyes followed where Savitus pointed, to the blue-painted sign that stood near the crossroads, with arrows pointing towards Dunrae, Landow, and the nearest train stations. 

“I do, Lord Magistrate.” He nodded.

“Good,” said Savitus. “Do you think you can shoot it, from here?”

“Yes,” said Helgrin, and he swung the rifle down from his shoulder. 

“No, no, no,” said Savitus, waving a gloved hand. “Not with the rifle. With your sidearm.”

“It’s too far away for me,” said Helgrin.

“Cooper wouldn’t have told me that.”

“Cooper is fully human, Lord Magistrate,” said Helgrin. “...and he has two working hands.”

Savitus looked to Helena, as though for an explanation. 

“Perhaps Helgrin just needs to see an example, Augustus,” she said, confidently. “He’s a better shot than Heinrich is.”

“Really?” said Savitus, and Helgrin had suppress the urge to squirm — saying that wouldn’t make anyone happy, but the Magistrate didn’t seem to care.

“My brother is primarily a swordsman,” said Helena, “and a sailor, or a commander of men, of course. But, yes, he is.”

Savitus rose from where he was leaning on the fence and drew one of his handguns. As Helgrin watched, the Magistrate raised it, took aim, and fired a single round. One of the corners of the sign exploded into fragments of brown-grey wood and blue paint. The crack of sound the shot made echoed off the hills and spooked the tri-horns. With a wavering cry, they fled for the far side of the enclosure, moving as one, as though the herd were a single animal. 

Savitus grinned at Helena. “Not bad for a man of sixty-five, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well done, Augustus,” she said, the corners of her lips turning up. “The Empire is in good hands.”

“Such as it were.” With one hand, Savitus gestured up the road. “Your turn Helgrin.”

“With all due respect, Lord Magistrate, I can’t—”

“What’s stopping you?”

“My arm, and my hand, it’s—”

Savitus held up one hand, to cut him off, and Helgrin stopped speaking. The Magistrate holstered his gun, and slid his left arm out of his coat. Beneath it, he wore his uniform, and he undid the cuff at the wrist, pushing the sleeve up to his elbow and taking off the black glove he had on. 

Beneath it, Savitus had an ironwood graft, and Helgrin stared.

Unlike Helgrin’s, it didn’t go up past the elbow. Instead, it ended just past Savitus’ wrist, though the Magistrate’s whole hand had been replaced. Helgrin could see the ugly seam, where the darkened ironwood met pale flesh. There were more scars too, the distinctive blue-black of spellfire burns, and they obliterated Savitus’ old tattoos, everywhere Helgrin could see.

“How?” he asked, too shocked for the proper honorifics. 

“A building fell on me,” Savitus said, plainly. He put the glove back on and rolled his sleeve down, then pulled his coat back around his shoulders. His expression was stern. “The sign, Helgrin. Shoot it. I’m in need of a new assistant, and I don’t like it when people make excuses.”

“...and if I were your assistant, you could do something for me and Charlotte?”

Savitus nodded. 

Helgrin put his rifle down, leaning it carefully against the fence, and he took a deep breath as he drew his own handgun. “I do have one more question, Lord Magistrate,” he said, boldly. 

“What is it, Helgrin?” Savitus watched him. 

“Which letter do you want me to hit?”


	23. gold, ochre, and red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happens sometime during Session XII.

“ _WHAT_!?” Boudicca slammed her fists down on the table. “He did _what_!?”

“Miss Boudicca, please.” Savitus leaned forward and touched her fist with the fingers of his good hand. It was a private train car, and the six of them were alone, but Helgrin suspected that screaming was still unwelcome. 

“I’m sorry,” said Helena, glancing from Boudicca to the Magistrate, “but you really must explain yourself, Augustus.”

The five adults sat in a private compartment — when they had boarded, Savitus had shown the train conductor his _Invictus_ seal, and this was where they had been escorted. In another room that was off to one side, Deanna was sleeping on a pull-out bed under a pile of blankets. One of her tiny hands was just barely visible, though the outburst didn’t wake her. 

Compared to the compartment that he had so often ridden in with Heinrich and Novus when he had been following Helena to parties in the Capital, this one was fancier. It was because the Grand Othean Express was a passenger train, Helena had explained, not part of the Capital’s public transport system.

Someone had come by and served them tea earlier, and there had been Imperial white sugar (which was different from the coarse, brown sort that clumped together and was common in Anora) and lavender milk on the tray. Helgrin had made the mistake of trying to mix the milk with his tea, and the bitter, sickly aftertaste made him want to gag. Now, his cup sat in front of him untouched, but Helena and Savitus had accepted it without complaint, in the manner of the high social castes. 

“Cooper and the other found a spelljamming vessel on top of Mount Carnatae,” Savitus said, calmly. “They flew it to Pova, which is where it is now, in the care of the Magisterium.”

“How did they fly it?” Helena asked, and on her left side, every word seemed to be agitating Boudicca even further. 

“It would seem that Torsby is a helmsman, like yourself. In fact, the handlers in Pova said he was a natural.” Savitus folded his hands together and leaned back, and Helena blinked, looking surprised. He inclined his head towards her. “Helena, I have to ask, did you and your brother never suspect?”

“Torsby was never in the Valiant’s helm chamber,” Helena said, and it was clear from the look on her face that she was thinking back, evaluating the past. “Or the Iron-Herald’s. I don’t think ever, in almost six years. He mostly went to officer parties with my brother and took care of his father, of course.”

“His father?” asked Savitus. 

“It’s a bit of a delicate subject,” Helena said. “Torsby’s father was in very poor health. Heinrich and I met him only a handful of times, and he died two years after we arrived in Anora. He had shaking sickness, and the Black Vein Blood Toxin, I believe.”

Savitus shook his head in symapthy and made a religious gesture, Helena returned it. 

“Are we going to Pova?” Boudicca asked, interrupting. 

“No,” said Savitus. “We’re still going to Amatrudos, as we planned in the beginning. We’ll meet Cooper, Obelisk, and the others there.”

“First we have to hang around in Dunrae while they fix the stupid tracks...” Boudicca scrunched up her face and snorted. “...and now Obelisk is cruising around the Empire in his brand new spelljamming ship while I’m trapped _on the slowest train in the fucking world_!?”

“Boudicca.” Helena put her hand on the other woman’s arm. “The Grand Othean Express is the _fastest_ train in the world.”

“And the ship is hardly new,” said Savitus. “Once they catch this rogue Magis—“

Boudicca cut him off with a noise of frustration. “The only thing Cooper and Obelisk are going to catch is _my hands_ for leaving me behind in Dunrae.” She seized her pack from where it was resting on the floor and slammed it down on the table, rattling their cups. 

Angrily, she tore the flap open and clawed through the jumbled contents inside, eventually producing a roll of yellowish paper and some sticks of drawing charcoal. She smoothed the paper down and using wide, furious strokes, began drawing something. 

“What’s that—” Helgrin started, only to be cut off. 

“A letter to Obelisk,” she said, without glancing up. 

“I need to see it if you’re going to post it,” Savitus said. 

Almost defiantly, Boudicca turned it around and held it up. It was a crude sketch of an erect cock, with the word ‘Obelisk’ written across it in jagged Anoran characters. 

“I like it,” said Savitus, and he sipped his tea. “Specifically, I think the veins of emerald are an excellent use of artistic license.”

Boudicca raised an eyebrow. “Who says they’re an artistic license?”

Savitus choked on his tea, and he set the cup down indelicately, coughing and holding his chest. Helena, who was supposed to be above such humour, but who had also served in the Othean 21st Infantry Regiment, covered her mouth and looked the other way, shaking lightly with silent amusement. Helgrin bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing too loudly. Lenna rolled her eyes, but giggled to herself.

“How are the Relay runners going to _find_ him?” Helgrin asked, when the moment had passed. “Obelisk doesn’t have an Imperial address, or any identification.”

“He’s like two feet taller than most people,” said Boudicca, starting up a new drawing, “and he’s made of rock. How are they going to _miss_ him?”

“I guess you’re technically right,” said Helgrin.

“The best kind of right,” Boudicca retorted, under her breath. 

“Is that one for Cooper?” Savitus asked, clearing his throat. 

“Yes.” Boudicca glanced up at Savitus, her eyes searching his face. “Something that you want to add, Lord Magistrate?”

“Only that, in Anoran, you need to append his name, or the name of any Magistrate, with the - _aja_ character,” Savitus said. “Just like you would for the Emperor. To make it grammatically correct.”

Now Boudicca cackled, and she bent back over the table, resuming the furious task of obscene sketching.

“Augustus,” said Helena. “What about poor Torsby, is he alright? Is he safe?”

“He’s fine,” said Savitus, and Helgrin saw that he was watching Helena carefully, as though he was looking for something in her words or in her expression. “He’s with the ship. Theodore and Gregor will take care of him.”

“I should go Pova,” she said. “Just to check on him. They might not have another helmsman there, and I’m sure he’s confused. The Magisterium isn’t precisely known for its bedside manner.”

“I think you’re right,” said Savitus, after a moment.

“That I should go to Pova?”

“That you and I should get off the train.”

*** *** ***

Sitting opposite Savitus, Helena rode in the carriage as it crossed the Othean countryside. The town they had stepped off the train in, Firie, had been similar enough to Landow that Helena had hardly noticed any difference between them. Small houses and a handful of shops were clustered around the train station (which had been a single room), and the Relay Tower (which soared over the other buildings). Compared to the High Imperial Capital (or even the Anoran one, to be more honest) it seemed laid-back and quaint. Helena had watched the women as they came and went and tried to imagine herself living there. 

“Where are we going?” Helena asked. 

“You’ll see,” said Savitus.

Outside the carriage, the landscape rolled away from them as an expanse of emerald grasslands, jade forests, and amber fields of grain. It was fall, though the power of the land was stronger in Othea than anywhere else on the continent, and the leaves were still hardily green. Here and there she saw lines of gold, ochre, and red in the forests, but they were few and far between. 

“Do you think they’ll be alright without us?” she asked, after more time had passed. 

“They’ll be fine,” Savitus said. “Miss Rosemoon has been in more dangerous parts of the world than Othea and Kajar, Helgrin is a trained soldier, and Miss Boudicca seems....”

“Eccentric?” Helena wondered.

“Perfectly capable,” said Savitus, matter-of-fact. “About Torsby…”

“Yes?”

“He’s half-Othean and half-Valdinoran?”

Helena nodded, but that answer seemed to have satisfied the Magistrate. Savitus gazed out the window and asked nothing else. 

By the time they had come to their destination, the sun was beginning to set, and when the carriage rolled to a stop. Savitus got out first and offered Helena his hand. She took it, and stepped down onto the dirt road, looking around.

They were in the Othean countryside, and down a short path there was great stretch of farmland, a small estate sitting on the head of the holdings. It was lovely and picturesque, but Helena did not mark it as different from any other place they had passed. She wondered if this was the place that Torsby had been brought to, since it would make sense for a Magisterium safe-house to look like everything else around it. 

Savitus started towards the path and Helena followed him. Nearer to the house, it was lined with trees, and a metal gate enclosed the property. At the top of the gate, there was an ironwork decoration, and when Helena saw what it said, her legs seized up.

“No,” she said. “Augustus, I can’t.”

“Helena,” he said. “You must.”

“It’s not the right time,” Helena said, protesting. She couldn’t take another step, either forwards or backwards, though she tried to do both, and her boots scraped in the dirt of the path.

“You must trust me,” Savitus said, “it will never seem like the right time, but if Aneji gets what he wants, you and I won’t be passing this way again.”

He offered his arm, and Helena took it, relying on how strong he felt to walk beside him. Together, they went up to the house, beneath the gate that read,

****

**— CLARET —**

*** *** ***

Nathaniel's parents were Vivian and Julian Isaac Claret.

His father was older than Savitus was, near to seventy and retired from the army. He had not been wounded in a way that was visible, but he walked with a cane. His mother was in her middle sixties, her face worn and creased by time and hard work, but kind. She had been an animal physician, a veterinarian, and she was retired as well.

They had been suspicious and wary of her and Savitus at first, though Helena suspected that anyone who got a surprise visit from a Magistrate would be. She would not have been able to begin the conversation on her own, but after having tea in their living room, Savitus had brought the subject of Nathaniel up to them with a great deal of skill and tact. Although she had been sitting beside him, Helena felt as though she were a child, listening to the others speak from behind the wall of another room.

Nathaniel's parents were almost stereotypically Othean. Plain, straightforward people who seemed grounded and kind, but Helena found herself terrified of their judgement. The reason, still unknown, that he had never mentioned her to his family churned in her mind. He was not here to defend himself, so it seemed uncharitable to accuse him of thinking she was unpalatable to his relatives, that he had considered her a member of the idle rich, or a sport fuck, or a _danna_ — the women who were mistresses to military officers.

Helena clutched her hands together. Nightgaunts would have been easier to deal with.

In the end, the whole story had come out. She told them how she had met Nathaniel at Charlotte's party, and found that his parents seemed curious, rather than angry or judgemental. They had begun seeing each other, which had become complicated when her father had fallen in with Aneji and his political party. It was at this point that Nathaniel's mother had risen from where she was sitting and come to sit next to her, taking her hands. Savitus, in turn, had gone to stand by the window, distancing himself from the conversation while he remained physically present.

"We knew," Vivian said, squeezing Helena's hands. "We did, dear. You must believe us."

"But, you..." Helena searched her face, desperate for an explanation. "...you never said anything at the funeral, or afterwards."

"We didn't know _who_ ," Julian said.

"Natheniel only told us it was complicated," said Vivian. "That there were politics involved, but that he would bring his mystery girl to meet us once things had calmed down."

"You could have put an ad in the papers," Helena said, even as she wondered why she was questioning their acceptance.

"That's true," said Vivian, and she moved her hands to Helena's shoulders. "But if a woman had come forward like that, how could we have ever known for certain? We could only hope you would come and find us, someday."

"I have," said Helena, and she gripped the woman's arms. "I'm here."

"I want to know everything," said Vivian. "You and the Lord Magistrate must stay with us until I hear it all."

"There is..." Helena composed herself. "...something else. I—"

By the window, Savitus turned, and Helena heard the heel of his boot click against the floor. She turned to glance at him, and so did Nathaniel's parents. Without saying anything, he caught Julian's eye, and something passed silently between the two men. Nathaniel's father nodded, rose from where he was sitting, and he and Savitus went outside together. On his way past, he squeezed Helena's shoulder, and she watched them go. The estate's front door closed behind them, and there was a sort of finality to it.

"Tell me," said Vivian, when they were alone.

Helena did. Falteringly at first, but speaking of it aloud seemed to lift the weight of it from her shoulders somewhat. Holding Vivian's hands, she told the story of what happened after the funeral. Of the terrible thing that Heinrich had done on their father's orders, and on Aneji's, perhaps. Nathaniel's mother was at first concerned, and then, horrified, and Helena leaned into her shoulder. They sat like that for a long time, weeping together and embracing.

"It's my fault," she said. "I should have fought harder. I should have been—"

"No," said Vivian, stroking her hair with one hand. "No, you poor girl. It isn't. You have to forgive yourself."

"I can't," said Helena, between sobs. "It's impossible. It’s too much."

"My son would have wanted you to," said Vivian, firmly. "If he were here."

"You're certain?"

"I am."

*** *** ***

It was very late at night by the time Helena and Vivian had said everything there was to say.

They had moved the conversation to Nathaniel's old room, and his mother had shown her his things. Among them was a stack of letters he had written to his parents when he had been stationed in Valdinor, and Helena read them as she sat on his bed. Nathaniel was not a poet, but he was straightforward and earnest, and she fell in love with him all over again. The last few letters he had sent mentioned her and the proposal, if only obliquely. They must have been how his parents had known. 

After that, Vivian had told her stories about Nathaniel’s childhood, and about his time in the military. When he was eight, he had rescued a stray dog, and when he was ten, he had broken his arm climbing onto the roof. Once, when he had come to visit, he had brought Roboute with him, trying to encourage his _amercer_ to come and live in Othea after he got out of the army.

By the time they were finished talking, the sun had gone down. Vivian said they couldn’t call for a carriage, since in Othea, they didn’t run at night. The roads were too dark to navigate. 

To Helena, it spoke loudly to the differences between the two nations, even though they were both Imperial. In the Valdinoran cities, the trains and cabs ran at all hours, most of the buildings were powered, and the streets, parks, and boulevards were flooded with artificial light.

Neither her or Savitus had any other clothing with them, but to sleep, Helena had changed from her _amercer_ uniform into one of Vivian’s old dresses. It was, at the same time, too large and too short for her — she was thinner and taller than the other woman, but she tied the waist with a sash and made the best of it. It wasn’t as if anyone from the Capital was going to see her. 

Savitus and Julian were much closer to each other in size, and while the servants cleaned their uniforms for the morning, the Magistrate wore a loose shirt and slacks that belonged to their host. He had had to give up his coat and his gloves, so his ironwood hand was naked and visible, and the spellfire burns went all way up to his shoulder. Now that she got a better look at it, she saw there was an engraving at the base of the ring finger — but Savitus must have lost his wedding band when he lost the hand. 

They all had dinner together, and Savitus and Julian talked a great deal about the War of the Black Impact, a conflict they were both veterans of. The Black Impact had happened before Helena was born, but she knew the Empire’s military history well — a portion of the Fallen God’s body had sheared away and fallen from orbit. It had struck the border of southern Kajar and Keslam, devastating the landscape with monsters the second it touched down. It was where Julian had won his first promotion, and where Savitus, then a young soldier, had come to the attention of a (now deceased) Magistrate named Arlin Magnus. 

After dinner, Vivian took her up to one of the guest rooms, telling her to ring the servants if she needed anything. They embraced again, and then Helena went to lay on the bed, drained and emotionally exhausted, but wide awake. Try as she might, she couldn’t sleep, and after perhaps an hour, she rose from the bed and left the room. Walking barefoot down the hardwood floor of the hall, she went to the room Savitus was using and knocked on the door. 

It wasn’t properly closed, and when her hand touched it, the door swung open with a soft creak.

Immediately, Helena found it troubling. She had expected it to be locked from the inside.

It wasn’t the wrong room, because Savitus’ things were here. They had left most of their gear and luggage on the train, with Helgrin and Boudicca, but the holster for his guns hung over one of the chairs, and there was a notebook and a black leather case on the table that Helena instantly knew she was not supposed to touch. 

On the far side of the room there was a glass door that led out to a balcony and walkway on the upper levels of the estate. It stood open, the curtains drifting lightly in the chilly fall breeze. 

“Augustus?” she asked, and shut the door behind her, but there was no answer. 

Crossing the room, she went out onto the balcony and saw Savitus was standing the far corner. He was smoking a cigarette, like her brother did, the trail of white-grey smoke rising from it visible against the blue-black of the night sky. 

“Augustus, I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, as she approached. The stone was cold beneath her feet, but not unbearable. When she saw his face, however, she stopped dead. 

He was crying. 

He was crying and he was bad at it. So much so that Helena had to wonder if he had ever done it before. His face was wet with tears, but that seemed to be the only part of his expression that had cracked. His face with still stoic and paternal, serious and grim. It was as if it was only his eyes he couldn't control, though his ironwood hand gripped the balcony railing so tightly that Helena worried he would leave marks in it.

She had been right, she realized, that he had never grieved properly. The hand itself spoke volumes.

Healing magic was powerful, and there were a number of physicians and clerics in the White Registry who could restore missing limbs, but much like the officers and Magistrates who believed they were entitled to _amercers_ , there were more people who needed healing than there were healers. It was impossible for the Registry and the church to keep up with the demand, and the waiting lists were years, and in some cases decades, long.

This was what made the ironwood grafts so attractive, since they could be manufactured and kept in storage until they were needed. However, once the graft was attached, it became part of the body, and magic couldn't heal a person who was already whole.

A Magistrate should have been able to have himself put close to the top of the waiting lists, but Savitus hadn't even done that, she realized. He had had them attach the graft as soon as they had dug him out of the collapsed building and gone back to work the next day. What else could he have done? He had only spoken about the bombing briefly, but he had lost everything in it, his apprentice and his family, his work colleagues, most of his friends. Helena had never met Albrecht Paladine in the flesh, but she had never heard anyone describe the Lord Director as 'kind'.

How could he have mourned properly, when there was no one left for him to mourn with?

Savitus seemed to notice her for the first time, and he ground the cigarette out on the stone balcony, then held up his good hand.

"Leave," he said, quietly.

Helena didn't. Instead, she crossed the rest of the distance to him and embraced him closely. He tensed, but then he put his arms around her as well. Grief escaped from him as a great, wracking sob, and his fingers, flesh and ironwood, dug into her back. He wept openly now, and Helena held him.

"It was my fault," he said, after a time, when he was more composed.

"It wasn't," said Helena. "Augustus, forgive yourself."

"I can't," he said.

"They would want you to."

"How can you know?"

"I just do," Helena said, and she reached up and rested her hand on the back of his head. "It's alright. It will be alright. We'll all be alright."

They stayed like that for a time, and then Savitus released her and stepped back. He was calmer, though his eyes were red, and he looked almost embarrassed, as though he were put out, somehow.

"I won't tell anyone about this," Helena promised.

"Thank you," he said.

"What was your daughter's name?" she asked.

"Elena," he said. "If she were alive, she would be the same age as you are now."

"Tell me about her," Helena said, "and about Trent, and your wife."

He did, and Helena listened, and they sat together for the rest of the night.


	24. decorum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place five years prior to Session I, with the second part taking place during/near Session XII.

“I thought I might find you at the bottom of a bottle, _maedar._ ”

Heinrich, who was, indeed, very drunk, looked up. It was Aneji, and instantly he was reminded that he loathed everything about the Senator. No clever retort for the slur came to mind, but he swung his feet down from the table they were resting on. They hit the floor heavily, and in the process, his ankle caught one of the empty bottles. It fell to the floor and shattered, scattering tinted glass everywhere.

“Commodore,” said Aneji, his voice ringing with falsetto concern. “Look at you, you’re a mess. Where’s your sister?”

“With Charlotte,” said Heinrich. “Caius and Tarn took her to the hospital.”

Aneji’s lips curved upwards. “You’re not with her?”

“I’m trying to get the taste of something out of my mouth,” said Heinrich. 

“So then it’s done?”

There was no shortage of ways to answer that. By anyone’s reckoning, Aneji was the future head of state. Which meant that any response given demanded respect, humility, and a certain level of decorum. 

Heinrich put his beer down. “I’m going to fucking murder you,” he said. 

“Right here?” Aneji asked, incredulous. “In your father’s house?”

“I’m too drunk right now,” Heinrich admitted. 

Aneji sat down opposite him, leaning forward and resting his arms across his knees, hands dangling. Other than their wedding rings, most Valdinoran men did not wear jewelry, though this was not true of Aneji. He wore a silver bracelet on his left wrist, with a charm representing some kind of chimeric animal, a hippogriff, or a griffon — Heinrich wasn’t entirely sure. It looked old.

“Better men than you have tried,” Aneji said. 

“Bullshit,” said Heinrich, and he reached for the bottle again, then took a pull from the beer. “Horrifying, but it’s bullshit.”

“Why?”

“Because it means that either no one has tried,” Heinrich said, “or that there are no better men.”

*** *** ***

The Gith, Haru, was with them, and he led them toward the interior of Anora. 

It was the largest island in the West Wind Archipelago, and like virtually every other island in the Great Western Ocean, it was volcanic. The centre of the island was dominated by jutting, charcoal-black mountains and steep cliffs. There were paths to the other settlements from the Capital, and permanent roads, but in most places the rainforest was utterly impassable. 

“I have a question,” Heinrich said as he followed Haru. 

Novus was with him, along with four dozen other soldiers, the Tower-Wall and the Anoran Capital left in the care of Tiberius and his crew. The Imperial soldiers formed a pair of neat, dark lines against the green of Anora as they walked, following their commander, though they were far back enough that they wouldn’t overhear.

“Ask it,” said Haru. 

“Why don’t Gith get the Godcurse?” Heinrich quickened his pace, falling into step next to the Zerth. “For that matter, why doesn’t lutum poison you? Why are there no Gith undead?”

Haru glanced at him. “Because no Gith has ever killed a god.”

“So, then, what?” Heinrich considered, and he squinted at Haru. “What does that mean? Sin is transferable? Guilt is collective?”

“I’m not qualified to answer that, _Arka_.” Haru looked back up the path. “I’m a monster hunter, not a confessor.”

“Then I have another question,” said Heinrich, after they had walked in silence for a time.

Haru sighed. “You don’t say.”

“We have literally _centuries_ of cultural exchange to catch up on,” Heinrich said. 

“And whose fault is—”

“Indulge me.”

The Zerth watched him, eyes narrowed. 

“You remember,” said Heinrich, going on, “what I told you, about Nathaniel and my sister?”

“Yes,” said Haru. “I do.”

“If I had never gotten the Godcurse, would he still be alive?”

“No,” said Haru, easily and simply enough that Heinrich accepted it as fact. “He wouldn't.”

“It would have happened no matter what?” Heinrich asked. “The future is already written?”

“Yes and no,” said Haru. “He would have always made himself an enemy of this... Aneji Ramas and the conspiracy surrounding him. How the Godcurse twists things is difficult to say. If not for you, he might not have met your sister, or they might not have fallen in love.”

They had come to the place Haru had spoken of, a clearing in the unforgiving density of the jungle. It in the center was a wide, shallow pool, the clear water reflecting the hanging, emerald green of the trees and the cooler blue of the Anoran sky. Heinrich, who knew that Anora had not been entirely mapped to Imperial standards, had assumed the place would be a hidden convergence, but it wasn’t. He didn’t have the gift, but all the same, he couldn’t sense the low, familiar thrum of power. The clearing seemed to be just that, a clearing.

Haru went to the edge of the pool, and Heinrich followed him. Novus came up on the other side, and Heinrich stood between the two men, looking down at the water and wondering what — other than frogs — he was supposed to see in it.

“We can cross between worlds here?” he asked. “This place leads to the Other Land?”

“Yes,” said Haru. “These men you told me about…”

“The Stormhands,” said Heinrich. “They’re going to be waiting for us on the other side. For you, really, and the other exiled Gith.”

Haru glanced at him. “How do you know that? How can you be sure?”

“If Aneji and Sijit are working with that…. Xhast creature,” said Heinrich, “he must have some way of communicating with them, and if he’s desperate to capture any Gith he can get his hands on, and you especially, I’m sure he’s got some way of making his human friends hold up their end of… whatever deal they’ve made.”

“If they aren’t there,” said Novus, “we lose nothing, and if they are there, we’ll have proof of what they’re doing, beyond any doubt.”

“I don’t understand,” said Haru. “These are your people. Why would you fight them, for us?”

“They aren’t my people,” Heinrich said. “Helena and Novus are my people, and Charlotte and Helgrin, even though I’m pretty sure he can’t stand me. Nathaniel and Roboute, but they’re dead. I’m a _maedar_ , so the Stormhands don’t give a shit about me.”

“It’s true, Commodore,” said Novus. “Helgrin thinks you’re a complete dipshit.”

Heinrich snorted and laughed.

“ _Maedar_?” asked Haru.

“Someone who has monster blood,” said Heinrich, watching the water, “but they pass.”

“It’s a bad word?”

“It’s… yes, a bad word,” said Heinrich. “Like _forged_ , but for humans.”

“Is it true?”

“I don’t know,” Heinrich said. “I never knew my mother, she died right after I was born.”

“It doesn’t matter to me either way,” said Haru, with a sort of frank honestly. “Blood and character have nothing to do with each other.”

Heinrich stared at him. “Do you want to know something,” he said, after a moment, “about Xhast?”

“A Valdinorian is going to tell me something about Illithids I don’t already know?” Haru crossed his arms. The Zerth’s face was expressionless, and his lipless mouth didn’t move.

“I feel like we’re bonding here, Haru, so don’t fucking ruin it.” Heinrich pointed at him. “Do you know why Xhast made Obelisk tell him where you were hiding?”

“Because the Illithids want to exterminate us,” Haru said. “It’s not that difficult to understand.”

“...but do you know why he forced _Obelisk_ to tell him?”

“Obelisk was the one who knew where we were,” said Haru, hesitantly. 

“Right,” said Heinrich, “but Cooper and I could have found you, if we wanted to. There’s only so much drinkable water on Anora, only so many roads, and only so many places you can hide a hundred terrified civilians. Xhast could have put the screws to one of us, but he _didn’t_.”

Haru watched him, warily. 

“...because who _cares_?” Heinrich asked. “You said it yourself, that you don’t care about Valdinorans or the military, and they don’t care about you either. If one of us had sold you out, it wouldn’t have even merited an internal investigation. Xhast made Obelisk tell him because he knew it would hurt him, and hurt _you_ , when he betrayed you. It’s wasn’t _enough_ for him to just persecute you, he _needed_ to make it all personal and fucked up.”

“I—” Haru began.

“It tells me absolutely everything I need to know about him,” Heinrich said, “and his human friends. Just like I heard everything I needed to know about you, when you told me why you saved Cooper.”

“That’s why you’re helping us?” Haru asked.

“No,” said Heinrich, shaking his head. “There’s one other reason.”

“...and that is?”

“If Nathaniel didn’t die because of me, that means Aneji had someone off him, and I’m going to beat every fucking Stormhand in the Empire to death until one of them squeals like a pig.” Heinrich rolled his shoulders. “One of them pulled the trigger, and I’m going to find out which one if it kills me, so open the portal and lets do this.”

Haru considered for a moment, and then waded out into the water.


	25. careless in triumph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the beginning of The War, in late AR 999.

When Albrecht got back to his office, Emmett Falkenrath and Klaus Fleischer were waiting for him. 

Klaus had had, Albrecht knew, only a single alteration done, and though his hair was cut short against his head, it was starting to turn blue at the tips and his lips were more gray than pink. It likely didn’t matter, the Stormhands revered Vhanileth as the god of wind, and ruin, and lightning, and he was carrying her blood in his veins. The Major sat in one of the chairs that faced the low oak table in the front of the room. His arm dangled over the edge of the chair and his feet were up on the table, ankles crossed. 

_Disgraceful_ , Albrecht thought. _Conduct unbecoming_. 

Emmett stood by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves the lined the western wall, eyeing a collection that Albrecht has begun before the other Magistrate's grandparents has been born. 

“You have Liam Myr’s writings here,” said Emmett, knocking on the glass with his knuckle. “Collections of his sketches. Some of his early works. I never noticed them before.”

Ignoring them both, Albrecht went to his desk and sat down, the Stormhand officer smirking as the Lord Director passed. There were reports that Junoh and Marneus had taken, translated from the Relays, and neatly arranged in rows for him to inspect, but Albrecht didn’t need to read them. The war in Belar was going well for everyone but the Bellish, which was no surprise at all. Edmund Guzik’s personnel file was among them, and Albrecht wondered if this had all come as a surprise to _him_ , or if he had been party to it from the beginning.

“Lord Director—”

“Emmett,” said Albrecht, not caring to use the other man’s title. “What are you doing in my office?”

“I came to talk,” he said.

Albrecht looked up. “On what subject?”

Emmett turned from the shelves, to face him. “I… believe Senator Ramas already brought the matter up with you.”

“Klaus,” said Albrecht, not caring enough to use either man’s title. “Get out.”

“Why should I—”

“Because this is a Magisterium internal affair,” said Albrecht, “and because I said so. Unless you’ve forgotten your oaths of service, I’m still the Director.”

Klaus looked to Emmett, who held out one hand, the gesture asking for calm — as though he were commanding a dog. Reluctantly, the Stormhand rose from where he sat, tossing off a mock salute in Albrecht’s direction before leaving the office. Neither Magistrate spoke until they heard the heavy click of the blackwood door closing.

Albrecht took the first report and flipped the top page up. “What do you want, Emmett?”

“Franky, Director?” Emmet came and sat in one of the chairs that stood before the desk. “To be cured. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Of course I want to be cured,” Albrecht said, “but I weigh my own salvation against what it would cost. If being cured means turning the Magisterium over to Aneji Ramas, and allowing him to use it as his personal army, or so he can draw on Valdinor’s legacy to carry out another Procession — I would sooner shoot Senator Gabriel, and afterwards, myself.”

“What if she heard you say that?”

Albrecht looked up from the report. “She has.”

Emmett drew back against the power in his gaze, and perhaps a touch cruelly, Albrecht allowed himself to be pleased at the reaction. For a moment there was silence in the office. 

“I know about the Water Vaults,” Emmett said, at last. 

Another man might have flinched, but Albrecht didn’t. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure I don't know what you’re referring to,” he said, even as he wondered where Emmett had gotten the information. Everyone involved had been dead for close to forty years.

“I’m sure I’m not bringing up the fact that you committed high treason because my intention was to drop the matter,” Emmett retorted. 

“Let me be perfectly candid with you, Magistrate,” said Albrecht. It was not a request.

“Please, Lord Director.” Emmett folded his hands together and sat back. “I want that more than anything.”

“You don’t need to be cured.” Albrecht, in turn, resting his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers together. “The matter is closed.”

“I have a family,” Emmett protested.

“...but you don’t love them.”

Emmett looked as though he’d been slapped, and Albrecht rose from where he sat and came around the desk, savoring the way the other man looked like an admonished child. Let him, there was no doubt he deserved it.

“Edith is…” Albrecht sighed, glancing at the bookshelf and its mirrored glass doors as he passed it. “Not your wife, because truthfully, you don’t even think of her as a person. Just a means to an end, an object _you_ believe exists to give you sons, and your _sons_ only exist because you know as well as I do that Valdinorans are as obsessed with lineage as Illysians are with divination.”

“Lord Director—”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Albrecht glanced down at him, and from where he sat, Emmett Falkenrath glowered upwards, furious. “You love no one but yourself, Emmett, and that’s why you’re so afraid. Have you forgotten that all Magistrates die at their posts? The Empire will endure without you.”

“Director,” Emmett began, again.

“The matter is closed.”

“I wanted to do this civilly, Director.” Emmett sighed. “I wanted you with us.”

“Did you?” asked Albrecht, pretending to turn his back as he watched the other man’s reflection in the glass of the bookshelf. “Is that why you needed to call the Butcher of Maranda to come and back you up?”

In response, Emmett went for his gun, rising from where he sat in the same motion. Albrecht was already moving, because in the one hundred and thirty-nine years he had been alive, he had never been outdrawn. Today was no different. The three rounds that Emmett fired off hit the bookshelf, exploding into a spray of paper, glass, and dark hardwood. 

Albrecht drew his own weapon and fired it as he cast a spell with his free hand, sealing the door shut with magic. Outside, he heard Klaus Fleischer hit it and bounce off, and Emmett cursed vividly, then screamed as the round hit him in the leg. He collapsed to one knee, struggling to rise. 

“Not a bad shot for an old man. Am I?” Albrecht kicked Emmet in the chest and sent him sprawling, hearing the crunch as ribs crumpled. The truegold gun spiraled out of the wounded man’s hand and slid under one of the chairs. Out of reach. Gone. “You can’t honestly believe you’re the first one to have tried me.”

“Klaus!” Emmett cried out.

“He isn’t coming,” said Albrecht. “Make your peace with God, Emmett.”

...but he was.

Too late, Albrecht realized what happened, that Klaus had transformed and come under the door as a rush of wind. It hadn’t even seemed possible, but to transform at all was the Great Taboo, and later, he would admit to himself had never seen a Stormhand do it. There was nothing the cult of human supremacy loathed more than admitting they weren’t entirely human. That Klaus had had only a single alteration done was a miracle in and of itself.

The Stormhand flew across the room and seized Albrecht by the front of his uniform, dragging him into the air, one fist wound around the red sash of office. The shot meant for Emmett’s head went wide, blowing a hole in the carpet and sending fragments of the wood beneath it flying. Together they went straight up, the full thirty feet to the ceiling, and Albrecht slammed into it so hard the blow knocked the wind out of him. Then Klaus dropped him and he fell, helpless.

There was no hope of righting himself, and Albrecht struck the edge of his desk. The crunch of bone, which had seemed so satisfying a moment ago, was accompanied by a red blur of pain that dulled his vision. His right arm bent the wrong way and broke, the gun falling from useless fingers as he lay on the floor, stunned. Klaus landed far more gracefully, floating down to the surface of the desk, resting improbably on the tips of his boots before he stepped down from it. A dancer, _en pointe_.

“Took you—” Emmett winced in pain and held out one hand to Klaus. “—long enough.”

“I thought you’d be able to handle yourself.” Klaus smirked and hauled him up. “Lord Magistrate.”

Klaus brought Emmett to him and set him down, the injured man falling instantly to his knees, unable to put weight on his leg. Unfortunately, both of Emmett’s hands worked, and as Albrecht tried to clear his head, the younger Magistrate took his off-hand weapon, pulling the clip out and shaking the bullets loose in a clumsy, jerky motion. 

“Beloved Cattalesta,” he said, smiling gruesomely as he held up the moonsilver gun. The elaborate engravings caught the light, reflecting silver. “A gift from Selene?”

There was no point in lying, but Albrecht still couldn’t speak, so he nodded.

“I would shoot you dead with it,” said Emmett, and he put one hand on Albrecht's chest, resting his weight on it, “but Aneji wants you alive so that we can put you on trial.”

Inside Emmett’s coat was his own off-hand weapon, resting in a holster of black leather, the strap hanging open. _Sloppy_ , but Albrecht took care not to look too closely at it as he gathered his thoughts. There was no saving himself, that much was clear, so he ordered his mind for what came next. 

Emmett hadn’t drawn the other weapon during the fight, though he had been ready to use it. _A message for Aneji_ , Albrecht thought. There was a blue caster-shell as the round in the chamber. He hadn’t expected resistance, and he had expected to rely on Klaus to do his dirty-fighting. It had, admittedly, worked out better for them than Albrecht would have liked.

Reaching up, he beckoned, and then caught Emmett by the arms. The younger man leaned down over him. Even wounded, he was careless in triumph. 

“Yes, Lord Director?” he asked. “Do you have something to say?”

“I do,” said Albrecht, releasing the other man's arm. With one hand, he gripped Emmett’s off-hand weapon, half-pulling it from the holster as he squeezed the trigger. “Save yourselves.”

The blue caster-shell ricocheted into the room as a ribbon of light, shredding Emmett’s coat and destroying the holster as it went off. It split into two, then four, then eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four — multiplying infinitely — the branches of a tree, the veins in a body, the whorl of a galaxy. Divine mathematics. The power roared, bathing the room in eldritch, cobalt light, and then it went out. 

Emmett was momentarily stunned, but as the light faded, he hauled back and punched Albrecht across the face. The blow would have been agonizing on its own, but it jarred his broken arm, and wide blots of red crowded his vision.

“Who did you send that to?!” he demanded.

Albrecht smiled thinly. “Everyone who needed to hear it.”

“How?!” Emmett shook him, and the pain in his arm threatened Albrecht’s grip on consciousness. “How did you split the shell? No one can do that.”

“I would tell you,” said Albrecht, “but you aren’t the Director.”

Emmett raised his fist again, but this time, Klaus caught him by the wrist. “You need a doctor,” he said, plainly. “You’re no good to us dead, so put him to sleep. The interrogators will make him talk.”

“He doesn’t sleep.” Emmett scowled and released him. “His god-blood is too pure.”

“Then let’s try this,” said Klaus, and the last thing Albrecht recalled was seeing the Stormhand raise his boot.


	26. the scope of its violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in AR 994, and then, six years after the War.

In his mind, Roboute saw the sky breaking apart.

As the weapon primed, he felt the crescendo of it, and the power bore down on him as though it had physical form. He felt it in the soles of his feet, in the tips of his fingers, in the chambers of his heart. The noise of it was spectacular and terrible, both in volume and in the scope of its violence. Then—

—then nothing. 

A man snapped his fingers in front of Roboute’s face, though in truth, the young man sitting in the office was not Roboute yet. 

The man peering down at him was tall and narrow, bordering on gauntness. He was Valdinoran, and his skin was so pale that in the light of the office it looked translucent, his blonde hair was wispy and short, and it was thinning very badly. All of the man’s features were squashed together, as though there hadn’t been enough room on his face for them. 

“Pay attention, _forged_ ,” he said, “when I’m speaking to you.”

Roboute looked around, trying to understand where he was. One of the office walls was covered, top to bottom, with expensive bookshelves of blackwood, the fronts closed with glass doors. The floor was carpeted, and a wide desk sat at the head of the room. Behind the desk was a great window of clear glass that took up another of the office’s walls in its entirety. 

Beyond the window was a facility of some sort, and the young man who was not yet Roboute saw smokestacks and forges and rows of grey warehouses and the crenellated black wall of a fortress keep. Beyond that, the world was dying. A scar in the planet reached out towards the horizon, the earth stained purple-black and rotting away in the fallout of the impact that had caused it. The entire site was walled in with black stone, and atop the walls there were great spikes of soulforged iron arranged in neat rows. 

_The Godscar_ , he thought, though this was his first time seeing it in person. _Belar_. 

How he had come to be here, he had no idea. The details of his past life were fading like a half-remembered dream, slipping away even as he grasped at him. He was, he knew, not important enough for the Valdinorans to have bothered capturing. 

“H— h-h-h-h-h—?” he tried to sputter the words, _How?_ and _Why?_ out, but it was too difficult to speak. 

Behind him, he heard the rustle of boots on the carpet, and he realized there someone else in the room. Roboute turned to look, and coming around to the front of the room was a Valdinoran military officer. He was recognizable only by his features, because although Shunar and Valdinor had been at war since there had been Shunar and Valdinor, the man’s uniform and the awards and service badges he wore on the front of it were completely unfamiliar.

“ _This_ is what you wanted to show me, Phineas?” the officer asked, and he leaned on the desk, crossing his arms. He was handsomer and better put-together than the narrow man, but there was something wound up inside him, tight and angry, like a closed fist. “It spent the last ten minutes daydreaming and now that you’ve got its attention, it can’t speak.”

“If there’s a reliable way to manufacture the Gifted,” said the narrow man, whose name was Phineas, “surely it’s worth a bit of your time.”

“It is,” the officer admitted, “if it’s _reliable_.”

“This is my most promising subject,” Phineas said. “It hasn’t yet melted down or gone so insane that we had to cull it.”

“Instead,” said the officer, dismissive, “it’s a drooling simpleton.”

Roboute gripped the arms of the chair with both hands, his knuckles white. His heels ground down against the thick carpet, and details began to churn through his mind, trying to make sense of the situation. He wasn’t wearing shoes, or proper clothes, and instead he’d been wrapped in some kind of white smock. The two men were speaking Valdinoran, a language that Roboute had only known a few words of, but now he understood it perfectly. 

More than anything, he wanted to rise and bolt for the door that could only lay behind him, but he doubted he would make it. There were surely more soldiers, and any passage through the wall would be heavily guarded. Whatever the Valdinorans were doing to the Godscar had some important and terrible purpose, but Roboute couldn’t fathom what it was.

“Look,” said Phineas, gesturing to him. “It can tell we’re talking about it, Major.”

“Is that so?” the officer asked, and he looked at Roboute. “Do you understand us, _forged_?”

There was something about the way they said forged that unsettled Roboute, though the word was innocent enough on its own. A part of him wanted to refuse to respond, but he thought back on how Phineas had said _cull it_ , and instead, he nodded. 

This got the officer — the Major’s —attention, and he came away from the desk, crossing the room to stand next to Phineas. “Do you know where you are?” he asked. 

Roboute nodded. With his hands, he made the sign for Sol, then pointed to the officer, to the scars on the man’s cheek. _Godscar_.

“Phineas,” said the officer, and his face lit up, excited. He turned to the other man. “I take back everything I’ve said. General Falkenrath and the Lord Director will want to see this. Can something be done about its voice?”

 _Why do you keep calling me ‘it’?_ thought Roboute. 

“They usually have trouble speaking for a few months after inception,” Phineas said, “and as I said before I have other potentials, if this one doesn't work out.”

“Just imagine it,” the Major said, and he put one hand on Phineas’ arm, his mood immensely improved, “being able to manufacture all the _amercers_ we need.”

Roboute’s mind raced. “F-f-f-f—” 

They both turned to regard him.

“For who!?” 

Nothing that had come before or would come after would be as difficult as speaking those two first words. His body and mind seemed to fight against him, and his fingers scratched at the arms of the chair. One of the nails broke, but the pain seemed far off, compared as it was, to the unreality of the whole situation. His voice was strange, not his own, and he spoke Valdinoran, as well as understanding it. No Shunari words would form.

“What,” said the officer, regarding him frankly, “did you just say?”

“I said—” Roboute looked between them, the words coming more easily now. “— _amercers_ for _who_?”

Phineas began to say something, but the officer cut him off. 

“For the Imperial army,” he said. “Which, incidentally, is the organization that owns you. You’re property, _forged_. So no more speaking out of turn.”

"But I—"

“What did I just say—”

Now, it was Phineas’ turn to interrupt, and he held up one hand. The officer shot him an annoyed look, but cut off, crossing his arms again. 

“You died,” said Phineas.

Roboute stared up at him, uncomprehending. 

“You died,” he repeated, “when the Shunari leaders fired the weapon. It’s true. Every Shunari died. It’s AR 994, this is Sancrist, and you’ve been dead for almost nine hundred years.”

It was too impossible to believe, and Roboute shook his head. 

“I rescued your soul from undeath,” Phineas went on, “and even though you were an enemy soldier, I put you in that new body. In exchange, I own you, and you and all the other Shunari have to work to pay off the war debt.”

“I—” Roboute had no idea where to begin, but one thing stood out boldly. “I wasn’t a soldier.”

“What makes you think you know better than me?” Phineas asked, smiling. “Hmmm? Especially when you can’t remember anything about your previous life.”

“...even if I can’t, I’m a mage.” Roboute met Phineas’ eyes. “The Shunari military doesn’t use _amercers_.”

He thought he’d gotten the better of them, and there would be no choice but for them to acknowledge the truth when it was put before them so plainly. Instead, the officer hauled back and punched him. The blow broke his nose and sent him sprawling out of the chair, wide patches of red blurring his vision. 

It was his first lesson in what happened to Alchemicals who spoke out of turn, but not the last. 

*** *** ***

“Did you ever think of getting them removed?” Zantus asked. 

Roboute glanced at him as they walked along the road, east from Sandpoint, heading for the train station. Zantus had been ready to leave remarkably quickly, and it surprised Roboute that he hadn’t bothered to address his congregation before heading for Magnimar. Aldergast and Merina would handle it, he assumed, and maybe Zantus did too. 

He didn’t like the priest. Zantus was Valdinoran, and that was reason enough, but there was something disquieting under the surface of the man’s personality. The ‘doddering old man’ bit didn’t strike Roboute as genuine, and it impossible not to recall the way Nualia had looked when she had shown up to Huron's estate with Dhaj’Verus and his warband in the middle of the night. 

“Getting what removed?” asked Roboute.

“Your Sancrist marks,” said Zantus, pointing vaguely. “The war is over, you know. Six years now.”

“I’ve never thought of getting them removed,” Roboute said, looking forward. 

“I know someone who—”

“I’d like to walk quietly,” said Roboute, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“Ah,” said Zantus, and for a time they did. 

It was uncharitable, Roboute knew, and wrong, to dislike all Valdinorans. Huron was Valdinoran, and Huron had rescued him during a time when it was Magistrates who needed rescuing. After the war, he had brought Roboute to live in his house, for the Emancipation Orders had not come with income attached, and Huron had paid for him to attend university. Akari, of course, was also Valdinoran, and she was—

 _No_. It was best not to think about that. 

“You know,” said Zantus, with the easy cheerfulness of someone who didn’t realize how much trouble he was in, “Lonjiku has friends in the courts.”

“I know someone he isn’t friends with,” said Roboute and left it at that.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Zantus raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak much, do you?”

“There’s the train station,” said Roboute, pointing it out, though in truth, it was only a small building with a platform attached. Sandpoint was not a popular destination by train, most visitors, merchants, and goods came and went by boat. 

After the attack, any hope of continuing the festival was spoiled, and most of the tourists left as soon as they could. Roboute didn’t blame them. The Othean Express had sent three extra trains to hold them all, but as Zantus and Roboute approached the platform four days afterwards, it was deserted. 

Mostly. 

Sitting on one benches while he waited was a lone man. He faced away from them, but as Roboute came to the top of the stairs, the man stood up. The stranger too, was Valdinorian, but only one feature about him stood out, and that was the scars on his cheek.

“Hello, _forged_ ,” he said, and smiled.


End file.
